


Between the Thought and the Action

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Also Sexual Intimacy, Confessions, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Riding, Rimming, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, privacy, sudden telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Tommy’s had enough practice keeping secrets that hiding his feelings about one of his best friends is mostly a breeze … right up until the joint telepathy kicks in.





	Between the Thought and the Action

**Author's Note:**

> With massive thanks to @Puckling for betaing! Content notes below.

If Tommy had been at home in LA when it happened, he would have found out as soon as he woke up. Twitter, Facebook, texts from his friends. 

But they're in London, the last stop of the tour, and he wakes up in a hotel room with dozens of mumbling voices in his brain and no explanation for it. 

He stumbles into the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror, rubs his eyes and tries to focus—on his breathing, on a mantra, on the present. It doesn't make any of them stop, and more and more he thinks he recognizes some of them. 

He'd read, somewhere, that schizophrenia rarely arises after age thirty. He’s knocking on forty’s door soon, but it's still the best answer he's got for why he can hear Jon and Lovett and Emily and a bunch of strangers all talking over each other inside his head.

He tries to breathe steadily, staring at the mirror. He doesn't look like he's having a nervous breakdown but he can't stop hearing the voices, _shit we're late; two more minutes; it's **cold** ; holy fuck holy fuck_. His hands are shaking on the sink.

It takes him a second to realize the knocking is a real thing and not something echoing in his head. 

"Tommy, open the fucking door!" It's Lovett. He sounds freaked.

Tommy grabs his jeans off the floor and shoves into them on his way to the door, almost falling over, and then pulls it open. "Lovett, I need a—doctor, I think," Tommy says.

"No, I—" Lovett's wincing, face screwed up like he's in pain, too. "Wait, why?"

Tommy doesn't want to tell him. Has to tell him. Has to tell someone, and at least Lovett's safe. Trustworthy. "I woke up hearing voices," he says, pitching it low so no one in the other hotel rooms will hear. So none of their _employees_ , relying on his healthy future for their career stability, will hear. 

"Oh, thank fuck," Lovett says, which is not the reaction Tommy was expecting.

"What?" 

"Let me in," Lovett says, and shoulders his way into the room. He's wincing when Tommy turns round from the door. "Ugh, it's still loud in here, fuck."

Tommy can hear him, and he can _hear_ him, a undertone of panicked swearing running like a bass note through the noise. "Lovett, what—"

"Me too," Lovett says, wild-eyed. "I can—hear them too."

Tommy's flooded with relief for a moment, and then a new panic, because at least schizophrenia is _real_ , is something there are treatments for. This is—oh. _Oh_. "I'm hallucinating," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "That's what this is. I'm having delusions. You're not really here. I'm—Christ, I'm probably not even really in London, I could be—"

Lovett grabs his forearm. Tommy hears him say "Chill the fuck out" in stereo, in his ears and in his brain, all of it crystal clear because all the other voices have fallen away. 

They both stop, dead, staring at Lovett's hand on Tommy's arm. Lovett looks up and the movement makes Tommy meet his eyes. "It went quiet," Lovett says, softly. 

"I—yeah," Tommy says. "For me, too." He's not so sure this is a hallucination, now.

"Has it... stopped?" Tommy says, and moves away the slightest amount. He and Lovett flinch at the same time, the second they stop touching, voices blaring again in Tommy’s head. Tommy reflexively grabs for him again, head pounding.

Lovett lets him, which is one of the clearest signs Tommy has that this is, somehow, really happening. No version of Lovett he could conjure up would be without Lovett's disinclination towards uninitiated casual touch.

"Okay," Tommy says, trying to catch his breath, or his brain space, or whatever it is he needs right now. It's still not just him in his mind, though, is the thing. He can hear Lovett thinking, panicked, about Jon, and Tanya, and Elijah, and Corinne, and about whether this is just them or the whole world—about if Trump can hear all the plotting thoughts around him—

"Let's just worry about us right now," Tommy says.

" _Don't_ listen to my—" Lovett says, and Tommy has the strange, new sensation of being snapped at not just in words, but inside his own head. Lovett doesn't pull away, though. 

"I'm not trying to, I—it's probably not even real," but it is, Tommy's certain it is. He doesn't know how, but all of this is obviously something real. "Let's go—find everybody else." 

"Fine," Lovett says, turning. "Come on. Don't—let go."

Tommy can hear the embarrassment Lovett is shoving down about that. He pretends he can't.

They go to Jon first, because they always go to Jon first. He looks fine when he opens his door, like he's just woken up and jet lag is kicking his ass but not like the world is screaming in his temples and won't let him think.

His eyes go straight to Tommy’s hand on Lovett’s arm. "Uh, everything okay?" 

Lovett eyes him, then tugs out of Tommy’s grip just long enough for Tommy to hear, amid the din, Jon thinking that this is a weird prank. He takes Lovett’s elbow and it all quiets again, just to his own thought and Lovett’s, that Jon isn’t having this issue. 

"You’re not going to believe it," Lovett says. "Grab the other guys, we need to have a meeting."

"Babe?" It's Emily, padding up behind Jon. "Everything okay?"

She's wearing one of Jon's sweaters, pulled down over her hands, and she wraps her arms around Jon's middle, leaning sleepily on him. What Tommy can see of her legs are bare, despite the weather. 

Tommy gets the new and distinct sensation of being elbowed from inside his brain.

He _thinks_ that’s Lovett. He certainly hopes it isn’t Jon. Either way, he makes sure his eyes stay on Emily’s face. 

"Better," Lovett mumbles. 

"How about _you_ don’t listen in?" Tommy tells him. 

Jon and Emily are watching them, warily. "You guys are being weird," Jon says.

Tommy steels himself. "You're, uh, going to want to let us in for this."

"We can _read minds_ ," Lovett announces, as soon as they're through the door. Emily raises an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look, Black Favreau; it's true." Tommy still has hold of Lovett's elbow. Lovett jerks away. "I can prove it."

Tommy grits his teeth. "Give me some warning next time, yeah?"

Lovett ignores him, says "You're hungry. You're—this isn't very helpful, Jon. I could be guessing that you need coffee and a piss." He tilts toward Emily, and Tommy hears it inside his head a beat too late to stop Lovett saying, "You're annoyed we showed up because you were going to suggest shower sex."

"Excuse me," Jon says, but Emily's eyebrows are going up and Tommy can hear her mental wheels turning, more or less literally. 

"Think of a number," Tommy says. "That's probably a lot less, uh—deeply inappropriate."

"4,682," Lovett says, just as Tommy, responding to Jon instead of Emily, says, "69—really, Jon?"

Jon and Emily glance at each other. Tommy grabs Lovett's arm again. He doesn't need to spy on their thoughts to know they're sidling into being convinced.

"So what's that about?" Emily nods at Tommy's hand on Lovett's arm. It figures she'd be the one to ask. She always has been able to ask Lovett things no one else would, and get an answer.

Lovett glances at where Tommy's touching him. "It, uh," he says. "I don't—Tommy?"

"It blocks the others out," Tommy says. Jon and Emily suddenly look a lot less convinced. "No, really. It does."

"Actually, we should test—" Lovett pulls his arm away again, grabbing Jon and then, frowning—Tommy feels like he hears the frown before he sees it, which is trippy—and then trying Emily. "Shit." 

Tommy asks before grabbing, and Jon and Emily let him try their arms, too. Nothing. He sighs, and puts his hand back on Lovett. "That's—okay," Lovett says, still thinking so loudly and so fast Tommy's having trouble focusing on the actual out-loud words. "We'll try the staff, too."

"I don't think we can ask the staff to hold our hands," Tommy says.

"Please don't," Jon says. He's scrolling through his phone; Twitter, Tommy assumes, for news. "Is this—like, is this just happening to you two? Why you?"

Lovett throws his hands up. "I don't know, Jon, it's not like it came with an instruction manual. _You're breaking the laws of science and here's how_."

"How bad is it?" Emily sits forward, leaning over her crossed legs, concerned. "Like, does it... hurt? What's it like?"

Tommy looks at Lovett. "It's not great," he says. "Uh—actually, do you guys have any Advil?" Lovett letting go of him without warning is making it worse, he thinks, than if he was just hearing it all, all the time.

"Oh," Lovett says. "Sorry, I'll—"

Tommy shrugs, but if there's a way to make Lovett not hear him not quite forgiving it yet, he doesn't know it. "Sorry," Lovett says again, and the inside of Tommy's head is filled with his actual remorse, tinged with embarrassment. It's—intimate. More intimate than Tommy wants. 

"This is a nightmare," Tommy says. Lovett's brain agrees, silently.

Emily glances between them, and then gets up. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll rap on doors and get the team in here, and I’ll go get some Advil from the concierge and see if anyone knows what the fuck is happening.”

“Thanks, babe,” Jon says, and Emily kisses his temple and grabs a pair of pants from her open suitcase. Tommy glances away before she starts to pull them on, before Lovett can say anything. Think anything. 

Lovett taps Jon’s phone, says, “Is there anything on Twitter about what the fuck this is? It can’t just be the two of us.” His thoughts say _please don’t let it just be us_. Tommy seconds that, mentally.

"Uh—" Jon's shaking his head. Tommy wants his own phone, his own laptop, but he doesn’t know if it will make his headache worse to try to focus on them. "Try—fuck, I don't know. WebMD?"

"WebMD doesn't do breaking news, Tommy," Lovett says. "Try Twitter again. Search for, uh, 'telepathy cure.'"

Jon types it in, starts scrolling. "Lots of people asking if there is one," he says. Tommy can feel Lovett aching to grab the phone from him and look for himself, and then there's a knock on the door and Emily's letting in Corinne and Elijah. "Tanya's on her way," she says. "I'll be back with coffee."

To their credit, both Corinne and Tanya take the news that two of their company's co-founders are now able to suddenly read minds with a remarkable sanguinity. Tommy can practically see the wheels turning in Tanya's head, looking for solutions, angles.

"And you can hear everyone?" she asks. "What's the distance guide on this thing? Can you hear Emily from here?"

Tommy looks to Lovett, who nods, before taking his arm away. It isn't getting any less daunting to have the flood of voices back, and each time it happens Tommy is able to pick out the emotions behind more and more of them, a crowd of people's love and fear and exhaustion and hope.

"It's got to be at least, I don't know, a hundred feet?" Tommy says. "I'm getting lots of people, not just you guys. Strangers in the hotel. Um—" He tries to concentrate, but it's impossible to be sure how many or how far. 

Lovett sets his hand on Tommy's knee, and Tommy sighs with relief that's only half his own. "Something like that," Lovett says. Tommy hears, tries not to hear, Lovett thinking that if it weren't for this semi off-switch, he'd be jumping in a cab and heading for the nearest giant field. 

"Thank fuck we finished the shows," Tommy says. "That would be—" 

"Bad," Lovett finishes. Tommy glances at him. "Sorry. We probably shouldn't, uh—"

"Do the mind-twin thing?" Tommy fills in. 

He catches Jon looking at Tanya, nervously. "Christ. We have a flight in, what, six hours?" 

It figures that Jon would jump straight there; Tommy doesn't need to be able to read his mind to know he's usually lowkey thinking about the next time he has to get on a plane by the time it's this close, like he's daring himself to flinch, or to psych himself out.

"We're not changing our flight," Lovett says, with a rushing determination. "We're—going back home, we're not—" Tommy hears _I can't_ , and tries to keep his mind blank, not react.

Jon's phone beeps. "Oh—" He grimaces, reading. "Andy's got it, too. Woke up in the middle of the night and he's been freaking out." 

"Guess it's not genetic," Tommy says, and hears Lovett objecting almost instantly to the logical fallacies. Lovett takes a deep breath and doesn't say anything out loud. "This is so fucking weird. Okay. Let's—let's just—" _kill time until we can get on a plane home_ , he can't quite say. He scrubs a hand across his face. 

They manage to kill the time. Tommy's Advil kicks in enough for him to start scrolling his laptop obsessively for news, for some kind of context. No one really knows anything. They're not the only ones who've found the partial off-switch, but apparently it doesn't work with just anyone. 

All in all, Tommy's ready to steal some of Jon's benzos and try to sleep through this plane ride.

The airport seems frenzied but only a little worse than usual. They were almost late, in the end; scrolling through news feeds, distracted, until well after they needed to leave. Tommy has been thinking worst case—they've shut the airport, they're cancelling flights, it could be airborne, what are the flight risks—and Lovett, who must have been able to hear it all, hasn't said a word. Tommy can't work out if that's kind or not.

They manage to get to the gate mostly without incident. Separating for the security checks, the passport checks, was rough, but eventually they're pressed arm to arm on the plane, waiting for take-off.

"You look almost worse than Jon," Emily says, quietly, leaning around from her seat in front of them. "You want some meds? Like, seriously?"

Tommy takes the meds, and Lovett slumps closer against Tommy's side. It feels—maybe this is coming from the inside of Lovett’s head, but it feels like a promise that Lovett won’t let go and leave him to the awfulness of the competing passenger voices.

Lovett says, out loud, "If you wake me up, I'll straight-up murder you."

Tommy says, out loud, "Pretty sure you'd regret it when you didn't have me to turn your brain down anymore."

Lovett grumbles, runs through a few possible rebuttals in his head, and doesn't say any of them. Tommy tips his head back and closes his eyes, and hopes for sleep. 

***

They take a cab together; Tommy directs it to Lovett's house first. Lovett tells him he doesn't need chivalry, thank you, but he also doesn't redirect the cab. Tommy pretends not to hear how thankful Lovett actually is; Lovett would hate that. "I'm gonna leave Pundit with Spencer for another couple of days," Lovett says. "I need to—focus."

The cab ride to his own place, without Lovett, is worse than Tommy was afraid of. Whatever the range is, it's not any better on the road than in a hotel. Even in his pretty low-density neighborhood, it's a screaming jumble of thoughts and, worse, feelings—not just his adult neighbors but kids, babies, excited and scared and yelling their heads off inside Tommy's brain.

By the time he gets home, he's got a headache he can feel in his teeth. All the usual ways he would try and unwind don't seem like options right now—television, podcasts, even Headspace all make some sound, and he can't even think about trying to run—and he ends up going to bed, early, because if nothing else, at least his room is dark. It's like having a migraine. It's like having a migraine while going mad.

He calls his mother, tries to hear her talk over the noise in his brain. He can’t hear her thoughts, which is interesting. Maybe it only works in person, or maybe the range is too long. “Your cousin has it, too,” she tells him. “I saw on Facebook. And that actor your sister likes.”

Tommy can’t do the chitchat, much as he knows it’s soothing her to hear his voice. “They’ll figure out what’s going on soon,” he says, wishing he believed it. “Probably be gone by the weekend.” She hums agreement, or acknowledgement, and he says, before she can raise anything new, “I should get back to work.”

“Okay, honey,” she tells him. “I love you. Call me if you need me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and hangs up the phone, covers his eyes and his ears as though that will do anything to stop the noise inside his head. 

He’s still holding his phone when it buzzes with a text. Jon. _You holding up?_

_More or less_.

He's not, though. This is worse than his worst sleepless, anxiety-stricken night in the White House. The voices are blending together now; he thought they might go quiet as his neighbors went to sleep, but they’re still there—muted, he supposes, but not enough to make a difference, and now they’re strange and senseless. 

He can't pick out any one voice from the bundle, but he gets words and phrases that feel like they're shouted at him: _project is due by 9_ and _fuck, I forgot—_ and, in more than one voice, _just fall asleep already_. He's not sure if that's parents putting kids to bed, or other insomniacs fretting. Either way, he hates it.

Just before 1AM, he breaks. He puts on sweats, gets in his car, and drives to Lovett's house.

He knows when Lovett hears him because he can suddenly hear Lovett too. He sounds just as pained as Tommy feels. 

_Tommy?_ Lovett says, in his head, and then, _hold on, fuck, I'm coming_. He's opening his door just as Tommy gets to it, and Tommy, face heating up, all but falls into the house in his rush to get his hands on Lovett, to stop—this—

—and then it's quiet, a rushing silence, and a dual hit of relief coming in so strong that Tommy almost staggers.

Lovett doesn't say anything, but he moves back into the house, Tommy close behind him. Tommy doesn't need him to say it out loud, anyway; they're both feeling it. The relief, the sudden absence of pain. The realization that they're stuck with each other right now, more than they thought.

And, quietly, in Lovett's head, a sort of warm pride that he can help Tommy sleep, when Tommy's so bad at it at the best of times. Tommy hopes he can. He hopes his roiling thoughts don't keep Lovett awake. 

They're having—almost a conversation, more emotion than words exactly. Tommy's too tired for words. But Lovett's thoughts soothe his worry, in that blasé way Lovett has of saying everything will be fine. Tommy never thinks anything will be fine, but he likes the feeling of Lovett's certainty. 

They separate just long enough to get into Lovett's bed, and then Tommy grabs Lovett's arm again. "Uh—thanks," Tommy says.

"Thank me by learning to stay out of my head," Lovett says. He sounds exhausted. "And don't—judge a man for his unconscious brain, if—" He doesn't finish the sentence. Tommy hears him attempt, and fail to voice, three variations on "if I wake up horny and vaguely aware there's a man in my bed."

"I won't," Tommy says, and then deliberately thinks _elephants elephants elephants elephants_ , pictures them, describes them to himself, focuses on them. Manages not to think anything else.

It's so much more intimate now they're both lying there, in the dark. He can hear Lovett breathing. He can also hear the way Lovett wants to fidget, wants to toss and turn. The way he’s missing Pundit lying across his feet.

"I'm keeping you awake," Tommy says. He's excruciatingly aware of Lovett's arm against his, Lovett's warm bare skin.

"I wasn’t exactly sleeping like a baby before you got here," Lovett says. "Like a baby—has anyone who uses that phrase _met_ a baby? I mean, are you kidding? Not famously good sleepers."

"My niece sleeps through the night," Tommy says, knowing it’s a brag, knowing Lovett knows. Aspects of this mind-reading nonsense are sort of freeing.

"Yeah, well, so does Pundit." But Lovett sounds pleased, under that, and under _that_ , Tommy can hear him thinking idly about his nephew, a chubby little thing in Lovett's arms, stealing his glasses.

"Sorry," Tommy says, out loud, because Lovett knows what he's hearing.

Lovett shrugs—Tommy feels it next to him—and changes the subject. He sounds worried, in Tommy's head, and tired. "How long do you think this'll last?"

Tommy's been trying not to think about that. He supposes Lovett can hear him cycling through his fears—forever. Just long enough to get used to it, and then be gone, and then come back. That it will get worse and worse until he and the estimated 140 million other newly telepathic people's heads explode.

"I think they revised the estimate to 200 million," Lovett says, softly. "And at least we have—" _this_ , his brain fills in. This semi-quiet. 

"Yeah," Tommy says. "I'd be—I don't know. Going out to the forest to become a hermit."

"I still might," Lovett says, and Tommy can hear so much layered under that, how much Lovett needs people, how much he's terrified that this will ruin his love of cities and performance and stupid little things, like game night. Lovett winces; it’s so much of his insides, out for Tommy’s view. He says, like it’s an easier thing to admit, “I haven’t called my family. Just texted. I didn’t want to—what if it works over the phone? I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just don’t want to risk—hearing something.” Tommy hears, pretends not to, Lovett thinking, _hearing what my dad really thinks._

Tommy's chest is tight with Lovett's anxieties. "It doesn’t work over the phone. I called my mom. And look—I can come to game night," he says, softly. "I'll just, like, play on my phone. You can just hang out with your friends."

"With your hand on my arm," Lovett says, but it's not very sharp, and the inside of his head is grateful, not sarcastic. Tommy thinks—he already knew how to read Lovett, mostly. He doesn't need the inside line. He doesn't want it, when it makes Lovett so unhappy and uncomfortable.

Lovett goes still at that. "You don't—just, you can't help it," he says, sounding and feeling very much like he wishes it was something Tommy could help doing, just so he could stop it. He's thinking very specifically about... penguins? 

"Penguins, Tommy," Lovett snaps. "Like elephants. Great big don't-look-at-this elephants."

The thing is, Tommy's realizing, it's just as hard not to mentally feel around the edges of the penguins as it is to put up a screen to hide his own thoughts. And, Christ, thinking about what Lovett might be hiding with penguins is letting his own, uh, elephant thoughts slip back into his head in living fucking technicolor.

He hears—feels?—the moment Lovett gets one of Tommy's thoughts, before Tommy can figure out how to stop thinking about it, about Lovett getting hard next to him in the morning and Tommy feeling it, seeing it. He lets go of Lovett's arm, fast, wanting to drown out his own thoughts with everyone else's. "Ow, fuck," Lovett says, grabbing him again. "Don't punish _me_ for your gay thoughts, Tommy."

Tommy stares at the ceiling, thinking about _not that_ as loudly as he can. 

"I think I have sleeping pills," Lovett says, finally. "Is that—"

"Yes. Please. Yes please."

Tommy gets his phone, puts Headspace on so they've—he's—got something to listen to other than the ferocious insistence of his own brain, and the fight to try and tune out Lovett's. When Lovett comes back from the bathroom with the sleeping pills, he's surprised, and then something else, fonder, a little sad. He worries about Tommy's shitty insomnia more than Tommy realized.

Lovett doesn't say anything, just gives him the pills and climbs back into bed. He shifts to the middle; they're lying side by side, arms touching. The quiet when Lovett touches him again is almost painfully good. 

Tommy doesn't say anything either. It won't help.

Lovett falls asleep first, breathing evening out, and then Tommy gets flashes of his dreams, troubled round the edges. Lovett, asleep, thinks about Tommy.

Tommy's sure it's just because he's here, just because Lovett's brain might be as full of Tommy's thoughts, asleep, as it was awake. He's sure it's nothing else. He has to convince himself of that; he can't have any more elephantine slips in the morning, when Lovett's waking up warm and easy. When they're waking up together, getting ready together, like a cruel parody of things Tommy's—pictured, maybe, and shoved down.

He needs to fall asleep. He needs to fall asleep. He needs to—he takes deep, slow breaths, focuses on the app, on his body, on what quiet he can find around Lovett's thoughts. Thinks, again, about elephants.

***

Someone somewhere is thinking very loudly about potatoes, and that's what wakes Tommy up. He has no idea what time it is, but the sun is up. Lovett, behind him, is still asleep. They've rolled apart in the night, and the barrage of other people's mornings is a clamor, a misery. Tommy winces, eyes still closed, and scoots across the bed until his back bumps Lovett.

Lovett’s warm, and the sudden quiet is blissful. Lovett’s mind is running on low volume, quiet happy nothing thoughts. 

Mostly nothing thoughts. There’s a thread of something more pressing, something that might wake Lovett up. Tommy’s brain is slow in the morning, too, fuzzed with the pills, which is why Lovett’s almost fully awake before Tommy fully latches onto what Lovett’s dreaming about—a lingering, teasing blowjob, the dream kind that never quite gives you what you need. 

Tommy jolts forward, and he feels Lovett wake up as the voices pour back into both of them, sudden and painful. "Sorry," Tommy croaks, but doesn’t roll back. He needs to control his thoughts, first.

Lovett is fumbling, confused, brain just waking up and trying to sift through all the thoughts at once, his and Tommy's and everyone else's. "What's—what—" and it sounds like he's just making noise, filler words. 

Tommy curls in on himself. He just—he just needs a moment, just needs to be able to _think_ —and the voices cut off. Lovett has flung out a hand and touched his back. Lovett's breathing hard, mind still trying to boot up. It had been a slow dream, a hazy dream, sensation more than image. Tommy can't get hard about it; he _can't_.

He rolls up and off the bed, fast, says "I need a shower" and gets himself into Lovett’s guest bathroom, leans against the door. His head aches but this is—better. Safer. 

He turns the shower on cold enough to hurt. 

By the time he’s out, Lovett’s dressed and shaving, door to his bathroom open. "You need to stop at home?" Lovett asks. His voice is very neutral. His thoughts are impossible to follow in the tumult.

"I'm good," Tommy says, not thinking about it. He just wants to get to work and—see how things are, he guesses. Check in. 

He drives them in. There's an awkward moment where Lovett hesitates, and he's thinking about where he can touch Tommy, where he can reach, _if_ he can touch, but he draws back to lean against the passenger window when Tommy looks over. 

"Tell me if, uh, whatever, I guess," says Lovett, and Tommy can hear him thinking about whether he could put a hand on Tommy's thigh. What it—might feel like—

Tommy drives the whole way with a pounding headache, LA crashing in his temples. Lovett looks miserable, mutinous.

He can't focus at work; he doesn't entirely know why they're even there, except that sitting at home doesn't seem like a better prospect. It's not just the voices; it's the knowledge that he could shut them off, that they could, but they're sitting on opposite sides of the room, instead, because—

Well. Tommy knows why he's over here. He's not so sure about Lovett. But there aren't enough elephants in the world to keep him from thinking things he doesn't want Lovett to hear unimpeded. 

The thing is—Lovett doesn't talk about sex, not really. Even his jokes are almost never blue, and if they are, they're—non-specific. Tommy knows Lovett's gay; he knows Lovett's dated a few handsome men; he knows Lovett sometimes picks up, and he's sort of sure Lovett's fucked around with a few of his gaming friends. But that's it.

By comparison, he could practically teach a course on what Jon likes in bed, or Shomik, or Jason, just from nights out with them where people talk. Where people brag. Lovett doesn't talk. Lovett brags about anything and everything, except sex. Now, suddenly, Tommy could get the inside line he's always wondered about, but only by being an invasive creep, poking around in Lovett’s head where he _knows_ Lovett doesn’t want anyone to be. And—and even if he was prepared to do that, which he’s not, Lovett could hear him, too, unvarnished and uncensored. 

So—no. He pops more Advil and turns up the music in his headphones.

Advil can only do so much, and it can't stop him making stupid decisions like scrolling endlessly through Twitter. There's thinkpiece after thinkpiece popping up about this and a whole bunch of interviews with eminent scientists whose answers all, so far, amount to a very wordy shrug. Even with his headphones on, Tommy can hear Jon's focused frustration about an email he can't quite word right, Tanya's concentration interspersed with jumbled lyrics from a song she half heard at the gym. Elijah, brainstorming. Someone in a shop across the street thinking about their lunch break; someone else waiting for a phone call, bad news.

Tommy shoves his chair back, goes to the kitchen. Coffee. He needs coffee, for placebo comfort if nothing else.

He hears Lovett getting up and moving to the couch in Big Marco—none of his thoughts are clear, but the movement is. Tommy wonders if Lovett's head aches as much as his does. He wonders if he's being selfish, not going in there and offering Lovett some quiet. 

Probably. Probably, yeah. He sighs, pours his coffee, and grabs a Diet Coke—the new cherry flavor that Lovett likes. 

"Hey," he says. Lovett's arm is over his eyes to block out the light. "Move your legs over."

His ass against Lovett's legs doesn't do it, which answers a question Tommy'd been wondering about whether it takes skin-to-skin. He puts the Diet Coke can on Lovett's belly, and then sets a hand on Lovett's bare ankle. The sudden quiet is—it's—Tommy's read about how cocaine-addicted rats, given a hit every time they press a button, will just press it enough to get high. But given a hit for random button presses, they'll press until their little arms fall off. Tommy's worried the strange painkiller of Lovett's skin could be that, for him. Fatally addictive.

"You're not a cocaine-addicted rat," Lovett mumbles. "And intermittent reinforcement is—first of all, those studies were very flawed. If you give rats exciting cages with toys and mazes and, like, other rats they can hang out with, they don't get that into cocaine. But mostly, if this works every time, it's not intermittent. You're the first rat. You're just hitting the bar to get high." He pauses. "It's a bar, not a button. You really don't know a lot about behavioral science, Tommy."

Tommy laughs, leans back against the couch. It's awkward with Lovett's legs behind him, but he makes it work. "I think you know too much about it," he says. "Have you been experimenting on Pundit?"

"How dare you," Lovett says, over the spark of amusement Tommy can feel flaring up. Lovett's starting to laugh. "Would I, I, _endanger_ an _angel_ for my scientific whims?"

"Yes," Tommy says, to happy outraged spluttering. He relents. "But not Pundit."

For a moment there, Tommy felt normal. It's _normal_ to know Lovett is happy even when he's got his best spitting-feathers game face; it's _normal_ to rag him until he cracks and laughs. Tommy doesn't need telepathy to know when Lovett's happy or not.

Like when they lived together, the two of them wearing thin over different things, and Tommy could look up from his endless papers and see Lovett bracing himself on the kitchen counter in a rare moment of genuine exhaustion. 

He feels Lovett go tenser behind him, and he's about to apologise for ... something, for noticing too much, for still remembering these banal, pointless moments that he's turned over and over, taking out every bit of Lovett's heart he's been shown, but thinking of DC makes him think, always, of secrecy, and the things he's never told anyone. 

He can't stop the memory as it shoots through him, can't even let go of Lovett's ankle before he's sure Lovett's seen—can probably still see, with Tommy closer and clearer than the rest of the voices—Tommy's college boyfriend telling him, fondly, that he's a dork, kissing him and fondling him in that familiar, possessive way he always had. 

Tommy springs off the couch, says "I should get some work done—" but Lovett's got him snagged by the pant leg, not letting go. 

"Hey, hang on—" Lovett's head is a jumble of wanting to apologize for seeing something private, and wanting to get angry that Tommy's hidden this from him, that he thought he needed to. Tommy can hear him so clearly right now, even with everything else, Jon's worries and Tanya's focus and Elijah thinking about tacos for lunch.

Tommy doesn't shake him off, but he has to take a second before he turns back. Lovett has to be able to hear the jumble in his head: embarrassment that he hid it for so long; shame that a younger version of him thought he should, at least at first in DC; a gut-twist at Lovett thinking him a coward. The way Bradley used to hold him, at night. The way Tommy had been thinking about telling his parents, just before Bradley called it off the week before finals.

"We should—" Tommy says, gesturing over his shoulder, and Lovett hangs on, says, "In a second."

Tommy pauses, as much because Lovett's thoughts are changing as because of Lovett's words. Now it's ... empathy, he supposes. Understanding of why people keep those kinds of secrets. Lovett searching for the right words—that part, Tommy understands perfectly.

This isn't the longest conversation they've had just in their heads, but it's certainly the most complicated, especially with the drumbeat of noisy, jostling thoughts from everyone else crowding them. If Tommy's going to stand here and not escape, he at least wants the pain-relief aspect of their connection, or bond, or whatever it is. He sits back down, puts his hand back on Lovett's ankle. Breathes a sigh of relief.

Lovett's still not speaking out loud. This is more diffuse than that, more nuanced. Tommy could almost like it, if it weren't for the sick fear of letting more out, having Lovett see too much. They told Mukta and the two interns who have telepathy to take paid sick days, for their own sakes but also to keep them out of the bosses' heads. Maybe Tommy and Lovett should have stayed away, to keep out of each other's heads.

He hears Lovett's response before he's even finished the thought: that they'd only end up back together in one of their houses, desperate for relief from the tumult.

Tommy feels glad he's sitting down. 

"Sorry," Lovett says. He sounds it, everywhere. "It's—none of my business." That doesn't make it all the way back—he wants to know everything, he's thinking about the way Tommy had shivered, happy and loose, as Bradley slid his hand under his shirt—but there's guilt there, an attempt to block it all out. 

"It's okay," Tommy says, automatically.

"Well there's a benefit," Lovett says. "I can tell when you're lying, for once."

Tommy feels like snapping at him. Doesn't, although Lovett hearing him want to probably still counts as snapping. He takes deep breaths. He wants to sort through his thoughts and pick out the right words, but what's even the point, right now. He just dives in, instead. "I don't tell—anyone," Tommy says. "I barely tell myself, if that makes, um, sense." He shrugs, still looking away from Lovett. "It's not a big deal."

Lovett's brain objects, loudly, to that last bit. Lovett's voice says, "Okay. Doesn't have to be. Like, a one-off weird college experience, we've all had those," and he's trying to be nice, Tommy can _hear_ him trying to be nice, but it doesn't feel nice when Lovett's immediately getting Tommy's internal response, the _it's not a one-off_ , the flipbook version of Tommy's crushes. The flipbook that has Lovett right smack in the middle.

"I have to—" he says, and gets up, and bolts. He locks himself in the bathroom for a minute, puts his head in his hands, lets himself breathe. He doesn't think Lovett saw—that. He doesn't think he got that far. Outside, he can pick up Jon thinking about the ads they need to record, how hard it was to leave Emily in bed that morning. 

So Lovett knows about his college boyfriend. Tommy can—deal with that. That's okay. That's _okay_. What's not okay is that Lovett thinks Tommy didn't trust him with it. It's not okay that Tommy can't let Lovett touch him to clear that up without accidentally clearing up a whole heap of other things.

It's not okay that Tommy's head aches and all he wants is to be able to go back in and touch Lovett again. 

He splashes some water on his face, more to kill time than anything else. He tries to think about—cloture votes, the Hastert rule, the unofficial whip count they're running this week. 

The thing is, he's had plenty of practice keeping things to himself. Tommy can be an absolute lockbox when he needs to be. But that's just marshalling his mouth and his typing fingers. This—he can't do this. He can't keep his brain from wandering towards all the things he doesn't want to say. 

He groans, turns the water off, and stalks back into Big Marco.

"Tell me a secret," he demands, closing the door behind him. "Something to, like, even things up." 

Lovett sits up, blinking. "What?"

Tommy is trying to keep his mind clear, keep everything back. He's picturing a wall, a lock, a slammed shut door. "Something I don't know."

Lovett's face shutters over. "That's—I didn't go digging through your college escapades for fun, Tommy, what the hell."

Tommy's head throbs. He thinks, _please_.

Lovett puts a knee up to his chest, his arms wrapped around it. His mind is racing, too fast to follow amid the tumult unless Tommy concentrated, which he isn't going to. Because he wants Lovett to _give_ him this. He doesn't want to take it. 

"What's the—the category?" Lovett asks. "Do I have to—I've never actually slept with any women, so—I do think Gloria Estefan is hot. I mean—hot is a complicated term, I don't really want to see her naked, but maybe the top half. Er—" Lovett stops, shakes his head. "I don't fucking know, Tommy, what's a good enough secret for that? Like, how big a deal is it to you that nobody ever know you're like eight percent homosexual or whatever? Is it worst day of my life big, or that time I got bird shit in my hair in front of a popular kid small?"

Tommy gets this image of a young Lovett, school Lovett; the Lovett who got shut in a recycling bin and grew up not quite able to keep the edge out of telling jokes about it. His head already hurts; he doesn't need that too.

"Anything," he says. "I just—"

Maybe the pouring of emotions into a compact conversation only works when they're touching, but Tommy feels it anyway. He doesn't want—this isn't _penance_. He's not eight percent homosexual. He's scared and he's tired and he likes guys too and he wants to feel like Lovett trusts him, even as he knows that of course Lovett does.

Lovett might get some of that. Tommy is trying so hard not to look. 

Lovett fiddles with the cuff of his pants, loose around his ankle. He goes, amazingly, slightly pink. "I, uh," he says. "Jon. You know. Mostly not now, though."

Tommy gets it more from Lovett's thoughts than his words: Jon in the White House, with that awful haircut but so vibrant and hopeful and bright. Telling Lovett what to do, assigning him work—"Wouldn't have thought you'd be into that," Tommy says, and it doesn't feel like the right thing to say but it must be, because the air in the room, inside his brain, is suddenly lighter again. 

"Yeah, well," Lovett says, lightly. "I was young. A crush on one's boss is, is perfectly normal. Developmentally appropriate."

"You weren't a child," Tommy says, grinning at him. "You were a grown man. You just dressed like a child. And rode a scooter like a child. And—"

"All right, all right," Lovett says, laughing and getting up off the couch. He grabs Tommy's arm. "We should just—get out of here. I'm not getting anything done, are you? And the fuckin' world's in chaos anyway, I think the listeners will understand if we can't hack it this week. Let's go eat tacos."

They go to the place with booths and sit on the same side, arms touching, side by side on the table. They get tacos. They also get alcohol.

"The waitress thinks we're a couple," Lovett says. He's an odd mix of pleased and weirded out, even though it's not an irregular thing. Tommy and Lovett and Jon—they're together a lot, and Jon at least is easy with his physical affection, especially when he's had a few drinks.

"She also thinks we’ll tip her well, so let’s see how confused she is overall." 

"I tip like a prince," Lovett says, not quite in high dudgeon. Medium dudgeon. Lovett must hear him; he pulls out his phone and googles what "dudgeon" actually is. 

"‘Offense or deep resentment,’" Lovett reads out. "Nah."

Tommy knows it’s nah. Lovett’s just fucking with him. They’re just fucking with each other. 

"Cursing sounds weird in your head," Lovett says, and then the waitress brings them more drinks, and Tommy forgets to ask why it’s weird.

They sit in—not silence, but the silence they can get, each of them tumbling through their own brains. Lovett, when left to his own devices, is unsurprisingly quick, flitting from topic to topic: the wait time, the traffic outside, how much he misses Pundit, how warm Tommy is.

Tommy feels warm, too—the booze and the company and the way he's sort of learning to feel quiet even with his and Lovett's brains running. He needs this thing to go away, soon, but at least he's got Lovett. At least it _is_ Lovett, someone he can trust his brain with. 

"Thanks," Lovett says, quietly. Tommy shrugs, sips his margarita. Thinks about the fun they had in Oslo and Amsterdam. For a minute, they're on the same wavelength—literally, maybe—trading not-quite-images of the trip like a strange telepathic slideshow. Tommy wonders what this would look like under an MRI, and that breaks the back-and-forth of it. He kind of wants it back.

"It's like flow," Lovett says. "The zen thing, where you fully focus on—whatever, writing or playing a game. We'd probably have to practice to be good at it."

"We could practice," Tommy says. "I mean—" They don't have a lot else to do, is what he thinks, and Lovett picks up on it. 

"Sure, Tommy." Lovett sounds fond. "We'll practice. We'll be zen buddies. Just getting our zen on. Is that what you bros say?"

"No one has ever said that, Lovett." Tommy can hear how pleased Lovett is at the bit, the way it's making him laugh, not out loud.

Tommy's struck by the urge to switch what they're trying to pass back and forth. It's probably not a call he should make while he's drunk, but now that—now that Lovett knows, maybe he can actually share some of the things he hasn't said out loud. He tries to pass over an image of him and Bradley, just laughing together on the quad.

Lovett's response isn't flow, exactly; it's more of a question, half-formed, a _was he The One_ kind of question. 

Tommy shakes his head, tries to express that it was—good, it was great, but it was just a relationship. But it's the one he doesn't talk about, so it feels freeing to talk about it now. 

"Not technically talk," Lovett says, but his brain says he gets it. That Tommy can show him more, if he wants.

Tommy does, probably couldn't help it even if he wanted to. Good things, like Bradley making him laugh in bed, the covers tangled round their feet; bad things, like the time he panicked, nineteen and stupid, when Bradley moved like he was going to take his hand in the street; quiet things, like looking up in the library one day and seeing this, this _guy_ , dark hair and a quirking mouth, and thinking, for the first time, that maybe he could.

He can feel Lovett ... listening, is probably the right word. His brain's still running down six paths at once, but at least two of them are him paying attention to Tommy, to what Tommy's showing him. He tentatively pushes some memories of his own college boyfriends at Tommy—a fellow math nerd with dimples and a shy smile, a theater kid in a rainbow scarf.

Lovett's brain shuttles past some memories that are—not PG, fast enough that Tommy can't see anything, just knows the gist. The college guys weren't all boyfriends. Tommy can feel himself flush up the back of his neck and immediately wants to apologise.

Lovett's brain tells him it's okay, it's whatever, hasn't Tommy ever just hooked up with a guy? It's a normal part of life—

Tommy _hasn't_ , is the thing. He's thought about it—he installed Grindr on his phone once, for about twenty minutes before he was red-faced with shock at the kinds of messages he got, and deleted it. 

"Shouldn't have used a face pic," Lovett says, and Tommy wonders if the profile image he used was in the cascade of thoughts, or if Lovett just knows him that well. "Both. It's both." 

Tommy laughs, rueful. Anyway—he's thought about hooking up. He knows it's easier, with men. But "easier" hasn't generally been his criteria. He likes relationships, the solidity of them, the comfort.

"Of course you do," Lovett says, and there's this wave of absolute fondness, the kind that only comes with long familiarity, hours spent in each other's company, learning each other's tells. "Still, you could—try again, if you wanted. Good WASP boy like you? You'd have your pick."

Tommy thinks again about all the messages he read. "Not sure if I want my pick of that," he says, and Lovett's laughing. "Fucking meat market out there." 

Lovett's thinking other things now, blurry messages in the middle of the night, and Tommy jerks his arm away, just in case. 

The taco place is really fucking loud when he's not touching Lovett. He tries to focus in on some of the other noise— _double shift again; table three's a nightmare; hope he's paying for lunch_ —and look away. Lovett probably wants the mental space for that, has boundaries he doesn't want crossed even if they're talking about—this.

Lovett stifles a laugh. "If you—I know I come off like a prude sometimes with you guys, but you should hear me with my gay friends," he says. "It's a whole other thing." His brain, through the noise of the other voices, says _you can be in the club, if you want._

Tommy wants that, and doesn't know how he'll handle it. He sips his margarita, leans back into Lovett's heat until the voices disappear. "Let's talk about politics," he says, gently. 

"Let's talk about half the world leaders being shipped out to the middle of nowhere to protect them from people reading their minds, you mean?" Lovett shakes his head. "Fuck. I hope this ends soon, or we'll probably end up at war with half the world. Although Trump mostly says all that shit out loud, anyway."

Tommy's doesn’t want to think about Trump; he doesn’t know why he thought this would be a safer topic. When he’s had this much to drink, it’s easy to tip from loose into anxious. He eats more taco. "What do you think they're doing out there?"

Lovett snorts. "Who knows. Poker? Hey, you think any of them can read minds? I wouldn't put it past someone to lie about that."

Tommy thinks about it, about what it would have been like if Lovett hadn't been like this too. If it had just been him. Would he have told anyone, if he knew what was going on? He knows himself well enough to know he'd have considered keeping it to himself. That's... not flattering.

Lovett, on the other hand, had come rushing to his door. It's not the first time Tommy's mused that Lovett's probably a better man than he is, but it's the first time he's done it knowing Lovett can hear. He doesn't bother to try to think about elephants; he's had too many margaritas, and it's too late. 

"I'm not," Lovett says, and his brain fills in around the words: Tommy during the White House years, haggard and focused. Tommy after the election, saying _I think we should fight._ Tommy comforting an intern, Tommy petting Pundit, Tommy organizing donations.

Tommy waves his hand in the air, as though he could push the memories away. "That's not—" He shakes his head. "You're there, too, in all of those."

Lovett's brain says, _if this were a TV show, I'd end the scene here. I'd say 'maybe we're better men together' and then cut to the B plot._

"We are, though," Tommy says. "You and me and Jon and the team, we're all—you all make me better. And want to be better. So." He doesn't have a neat scene-ending line, either. He does have a taco he can shove in his mouth to keep from getting any sappier.

He doesn't have a mental taco, though, so his brain can keep running. Lovett, talking quietly with a fan after a show. Talking Emily's ear off when she's stressed out and can't switch off, needs something to listen to that isn’t her own mind. Shoving Jon in the pool that one time—

"I don't think that counts," Lovett says, and Tommy says, "Yeah, it does."

"Okay," Lovett says, digging his wallet out. "That's enough mutual admiration society for us. Let's get a Lyft. Mine? Mine. Never mind, you didn't object fast enough." 

Tommy laughs, and acquiesces. Lovett's paying for their lunch, after all. 

"I miss Pundit," Lovett says, and he does, Tommy can feel it. "I know it makes sense to leave her with Spencer until we know more about all of this, but it—I miss her." He misses cuddling with her, napping with her, just having her there when he putters around the house—Tommy can feel all of that.

"I'll be there when you're puttering," Tommy says, and almost but doesn't quite keep himself from thinking _I'll cuddle with you_.

They slept in the same bed last night. They've touched more in the last few hours than they have in much of the rest of their friendship: touching Lovett is very much on Lovett's terms, and sometimes he can't stand it. Tommy's thinking about the way Lovett's breathing evened out as he fell asleep.

Lovett feels—surprised, maybe. Thrown, definitely. Pleased, though, under that. "Why, Tommy," he says, showily fluttering his eyelashes as they head out to wait for the Lyft. "I never knew you cared."

Tommy searches, frantically, for another topic—the weather, the traffic, the way the tacos are settling somewhat uncomfortably in his stomach. "Okay, okay," Lovett says. "Don't give me more digestive updates than I'm getting anyway. Tell me about sports or something."

Tommy gratefully takes the offer, rambling about the lead-up to the Super Bowl. "We're all going to Thousand Oaks again, right?" Lovett asks, but that's almost his only interruption until they get home. His brain isn't interested, exactly, but he's tuned in. Mostly, Tommy's chatter seems to wash over him, in a way that's calming for both of them, right now. Tommy can live with that.

He winds it up at the house, follows Lovett in. "Want to watch something?" he offers, and hears the gratitude in Lovett before Lovett responds. Yes, he'd like to—something distracting, something they can both focus on. 

They settle on Battlestar Galactica—Lovett's seen all of it before; Tommy's seen some, mostly because Lovett wouldn't shut up about it. Tommy spends the first twenty minutes thinking about the emptiness of space, the absolute silence. Lovett elbows him eventually. 

"Tommy. I swear to god. If you're going to throw yourself out an airlock, please wait until I'm not in your head." It's glib, but there's worry under it, and frustration.

Tommy tries to focus on the story, on the characters. He mostly remembers them. He remembers Kara, who’s hot and snarky. 

"Of course you like Starbuck," Lovett says. Maybe he’s not focusing on the show well, either, if he’s listening in on Lovett. He sounds pleased, though, that Tommy’s cut the maudlin. 

"It’s not maudlin," Tommy protests. "It’s just—I miss being alone in my head. Don’t you?"

 _Constantly,_ Lovett doesn’t say. _Especially in the shower,_ and then he coughs, looks pointedly at the screen. "Forget you heard that."

"Of course," Tommy says. "You—I’ll try to focus on other things while you—"

"That is _not_ forgetting you heard that," Lovett interrupts. "Watch the nice space people now, please."

The nice space people are... taking off their clothes. Tommy hasn't seen this season, so he's kind of lost, plot-wise, but he can recognise desperation when he sees it. The camera is spinning around the two characters and they're clutching at each other, kissing like they might die. Maybe they might, Tommy doesn't know. 

On screen, Kara groans, tosses her head. Tommy can feel himself going red. Lovett, next to him, is thinking very hard about... penguins. Oh.

Tommy tries to think about penguins, too, or on the art direction of the scene, which seems very good. The scene is just ... not ending. It hasn’t been long, he supposed, except that any sex scene is long when you’re accidentally telepathic and sitting next to your—Lovett. 

It ends, finally, not that Tommy can really pay much attention to the next scene. Lovett’s still—well. The problem is, even without everything that’s sneaking in around the penguins, about cut abs and the perfect resolution of the will-they-won’t-they chemistry and the way Lovett hasn’t jerked off since London—even without all of that, Tommy can _feel_ Lovett getting hard, like a ghostly echo of what his own erections feel like. 

_Elephants elephants elephants_.

It's—god that's weird—it's like getting hard, the same rush of awareness and want, but it's faster than Tommy, his body feeling Lovett's reaction before his own. Something is happening on the screen. Tommy can't focus at all. 

His hand is on Lovett's arm. All there is in the world is his thoughts and Lovett's, and Lovett's agonising awareness of Tommy knowing—knowing—

"It's—" 

"Don't say _anything_ ," Lovett says. His mind is a mess; Tommy can't pick anything out clearly, just frustration at himself, maybe, and a stray thought about Tommy's abs.

Lovett yanks his arm away, gets up off the couch. The roar of the neighborhood pours in, not quite silencing what he’s still getting from Lovett, the arousal and the upset. 

Tommy tries not to see him yanking his jeans to the side, semi-casually adjusting himself, as he turns away. 

Tommy stays on the couch. He thinks Lovett’s just going for a beer, maybe, until he hears the shower flip on and feels—sees—feels Lovett stripping out of his clothes.

He's never seen Lovett naked. He's seen Jon naked a few times—close quarters on the campaign and a general bro code ethos—but not Lovett. Is that weird to think about? He should probably stop thinking about it.

The sound of the water running changes just as Tommy hears Lovett wince at the water temperature, feels him slowly adjust. Tommy wonders what his thighs look like. The small of his back.

Elephants elephants elephants. _Elephants_.

Lovett's not taking a cold shower. That's—it hits Tommy, all at once, what that means, what he's about to hear. It's smart, really; they can't go forever, and maybe it's better to just ... get it done, not risk waking up next to Tommy with come in his boxers and a dream memory in both their brains.

Just. It's a lot. He wants the neighborhood to crowd it out (he doesn't, he doesn't want that at all) but it's so _loud_ , Lovett's need and the relief he feels the moment his hand is on his cock, under the spray. It's all filtered, an echo of what Lovett's feeling, but it's so strong and so close and so familiar. 

There's no amount of elephants in the world for this. If Tommy keeps trying to think about elephants, he's going to wind up having some seriously inappropriate thoughts about them. Lovett jerking off is just too omnipresent, too inescapable. Tommy can hear it and feel it and he can't stop thinking about it, about how Lovett must _look_ , about what he likes, about—about how Tommy could—

Jesus. Tommy is so helplessly, helplessly hard. He tries to breathe through it, tries _anything_ , but there's nothing strong enough to distract him from this.

 _Gotta, gotta_ , Lovett is thinking, frantic. _Almost—almost_ —and, fuck, it's taking him no time at all, he's not being slow about it, just jerking himself fast, needing it, needing it more than he was expecting when he got in the shower.

He must be able to hear Tommy. He must know that Tommy can—that Tommy is thinking about—

There's a sudden wave of need, hot and unstoppable, that feels like Tommy's knees are buckling even though he's sitting down. It takes Tommy a second to realize it's not his.

He hopes Lovett stays in the shower, after, because Tommy's going to need some privacy on this fucking couch. He has his pants open before he can think better of it—sparing a glance at the pulled-down blinds, at least—and fuck, _fuck_ , his hand feels ten times better than it ever has. Lovett's need is crashing through him, and Tommy's not sure where either of them ends, not sure who's thinking about how they might as well be touching each other, the way it feels. He's not sure who's thinking about blowjobs, but he knows it's his mouth he feels watering.

He thought Lovett was going fast; it's nothing to how he feels, like he's going to come before he's even had a moment to try to think straight, to try to—to do anything that isn't wishing Lovett were touching him, that he were touching Lovett, that isn't throwing all his attempts at self-protection out the fucking window.

Lovett comes. Tommy feels it rushing through him, almost falls over from how intense it is. Every other voice in his head is nothing; it's almost as quiet as when they're touching. It's just _this_ , just Lovett gasping and still palming himself through the sensitivity because he can still feel Tommy, and Tommy stroking harder and faster and desperate.

He can't—he _can't_ last, couldn't even if there was time and he wasn't jerking off on someone else's couch, and he's biting his lip like that will stop Lovett from hearing anything. Lovett can hear _everything_. Lovett is still touching himself, gently now, and goddamn Tommy wants to see properly, wants to know what Lovett's dick looks like peeking out of his fist, what Lovett's face looks like when he's desperate and spent. Tommy can't stop thinking about any of it, just filth, all his chained-back thoughts come loose.

Tommy's canting his hips up, so close, and Lovett thinks, _Tommy_ in this gut-punch way, ragged and sensitive, and that does it, how could it not, fuck. Tommy just about remembers to try and catch his come.

Tommy comes back to himself, panting, curled forward. Lovett’s not so blaring in his brain now; other voices are crowding in. Tommy can hear people getting their kids off the school bus, making snacks, doing chores. 

He tucks himself in and goes into Lovett’s downstairs bathroom to wash his hands and stare at himself in the mirror. _Fuck_ , that had been—not a good idea. 

That, he hears echoed from upstairs. He thinks, hoping Lovett hears it, that it was just—inevitable, the effect of hormones and telepathy coming together. Nothing they need to make a big deal about. 

Tommy shoves back the part of his brain that wants to say it was a big fucking deal, actually.

He stares at himself in the mirror over the sink: hectic pink cheeks, lip red where he's bitten it, hard. Upstairs, the shower cuts off.

Tommy tries to think just his own thoughts. Leaning on the sink like this reminds him sharply of London, those awful few moments where he really thought—he really thought he was going completely batshit, the kind you don't come back from. But then—Lovett. Always then Lovett.

People's quiet lives are so loud in Tommy's head. He closes his eyes, thinks, _it's fine, it's fine, it's fine_. He hopes Lovett can hear that too.

He isn't sure what to do; he's trying his fucking best not to listen in. He splashes his face, checks his fly, goes back into the living room. This is maybe not the right show for them right now. Lovett has Netflix; Netflix has Frasier. 

He switches them over, and starts watching. It's easier to focus, now, when he's trying to drown out the neighborhood. He pays attention to the details of the sets, the line delivery. When Lovett walks back in, Tommy hadn't even heard him coming, so something's working. 

"Is this the one where there's some kind of misunderstanding?" Lovett says, and Tommy breathes out. 

"Seems like a safe bet," he says. "Have you seen this one?"

"Tommy," Lovett says, and he sounds almost normal as he sits on the other end of the couch. "I've seen all of them. I am a Frasier encyclopedia. Everything I know about Seattle, psychotherapy, and radio, I learned from Frasier."

"All right," Tommy says, gamely. "Tell me something about—" he stops himself saying psychotherapy just in time; they've had enough of that "—Seattle."

"Ferry boats," Lovett says, nodding. "They have ferry boats."

The laugh track plays at just the right time and Tommy gets Lovett's spike of amusement a split second before his own.

"I think I knew that from Grey's Anatomy," Tommy says. "McDreamy loves ferry boats."

Lovett doesn't look at him, but Tommy can feel a side-eye, nonetheless. "It was a good show," he protests, but this, at least, feels light and safe, Lovett making fun of him. "It's mindless entertainment, okay. Jon and I used to watch it during the campaign to decompress."

Tommy's head is starting to pound again, but he doesn't ask Lovett to move closer. He'll take the headache over disturbing this equilibrium.

"I watched this," Lovett says, gesturing at the screen. "Not during the campaign, but my first year in LA, when everything was—" He shrugs, and Tommy picks out the emotions Lovett can't name: exciting, terrifying, new and strange. 

Niles says something cutting, and then gets distracted by Daphne in a low-cut outfit. Frasier makes fun of him. The dog does a trick. It's all very soothing. Tommy takes another deep breath, and lets himself relax, at least as much as he's been able to manage since London.

It's so familiar, here on Lovett's couch, Lovett curled up in a weird arrangement of limbs against the other couch arm. The only thing that's missing is Pundit, snoozing between them, or sprawled out at Lovett's feet, demanding attention. Tommy feels more at home here than he'd noticed.

Lovett either doesn't hear that, or does him the courtesy of shoving down any reaction.

They manage to eke out the six hours before an early bedtime that way, skipping to new episodes every time Lovett says "this one is stupid," and ordering Thai food that Tommy gets at the door. He tips heavily enough that he can hear the delivery guy thinking _nice_ as he walks away. 

He’s got a pounding headache. So does Lovett. They don’t touch. But at least they’re not alone.

They call it quits, finally, way earlier than Tommy remembers going to bed in years; _hours_ before Lovett, whose sleep schedule is erratic, usually does. Through the thumping in his head, Tommy offers to sleep on the couch.

Lovett levels a look at him. "Don't be stupid," he says, and he sounds exhausted all through, his head aching as bad as Tommy's.

Tommy hasn't got any clean clothes here, didn't bring his suitcase the night before, still unpacked from Europe. He wants out of this t-shirt. He wants, so badly, out, of these boxers. 

Lovett chucks a pair of boxers at him. "Here," he says, carefully not looking at Tommy. His brain says, _no one wants to sleep in the wet patch_. Tommy doesn't know if he meant to. "And you left a tee here when you were crashing last year. It's... somewhere."

They locate the shirt. Tommy changes in the bathroom, wincing when he moves. His brain feels too large for his skull. Everyone is thinking so fucking loud. His teeth hurt. Maybe Lovett's teeth hurt. Either way, he hurts.

He tries not to touch Lovett as he gets in the spare side of the bed, fumbling in the dark, but Lovett makes a small, pained noise as the bed jostles, and grabs for his arm. The relief when his fingers make contact is almost blinding, a cold rush of water on a burn. For a split second, it's like Tommy can hear nothing at all.

And then—a sudden crash of images, too fast for Tommy to look away from—Lovett thinking unbidden about the last guy who shared his bed, the last guy who wore—oh fuck—his underwear. Lovett, on his back in this bed, legs hooked over someone's shoulders. Lovett, head tipped back. Lovett’s last boyfriend, Chris— _shit_ —fucking him hard. Chris telling him not to touch his dick. Lovett taking it. Begging for it.

Lust speeds through Tommy with a strength that makes this afternoon’s—incident—feel like nothing at all. He rolls in, gasping, grabbing for Lovett before he’s even had a chance to think. 

Lovett’s grabbing for him, too, both of their brains in sync, focused on the pounding need to touch and be touched and when Tommy wraps his hand around Lovett’s cock, he feels it from every fucking angle. It feels as good as touching himself, no shadow or echo anymore. Lovett’s hand finding Tommy’s cock is barely even an addition to the flow of desperate pleasure they’re trading back and forth.

God, god, it's so _good_ , so good that Tommy's gasping mind can't find words for it, lost in it. There's no finesse to this, just need; they're stroking each other fast and rough. Lovett makes this gulping desperate noise, and Tommy curls in on himself, presses his damp forehead to Lovett's chest, heaving for breath. 

_Please, please_ , Tommy hears, and he can't tell if Lovett is saying it or thinking it, just knows it, flooding through him. Tommy thinks about Lovett on his back, begging; it's a passing thought, but his toes are curling, he's getting so close. What would that be like? Would—would Lovett want that, if it were with him?

The not-quite-vision of it is blaring in the front of Tommy's brain, and he doesn't know if it's his thought or Lovett's or _theirs_ , but it's too vivid to look away from in this sex haze he's caught in. Lovett's legs around him, Lovett's fingers tight on his hips, Lovett taking his cock—he can _feel_ it, almost as clearly as he can feel Lovett's hand on him in the real world. 

There barely is a real world to Tommy right now; he thinks he hears them grunting and half-muttering and breathing hard into each other's faces, foreheads pressed together, but it's drowned out by the grunting and half-muttering and emotions in his head, which seem more important.

Lovett is shoving into Tommy's hand, hips jerking, and one of them is thinking about Tommy's hips snapping too, Lovett taking it, _taking_ it. Chris told him not to touch his dick, Tommy thinks, and next to him, Lovett groans. _I like it_ , Tommy thinks, sure and hot and entirely unhidden, and Lovett groans louder. 

Fuck, fuck, this is—he can't tell whose orgasm is rushing up faster, can barely keep track of anything but the overwhelming need, Lovett's dick hot and leaking in his hand. He still hasn't seen it.

He wants to see it—he wants to watch Lovett come. He shoves Lovett back just enough that he can look down at his own hand, at the waistband of Lovett's boxers that somehow got tucked down enough to free his cock. Tommy doesn't remember doing that—he barely remembers how they got here at all, except the images that are still pouring through him, Lovett's memories.  
He can feel how much Lovett needs it, needs to come, wants Tommy to watch, and Tommy tells him to please just do it, neither of them saying anything out loud. Who needs to, when they're linked like this, when they're sharing _everything_ like this.

Lovett isn't begging, not like he's remembering, but his whole body is pitched like he is, canting towards Tommy. He's biting his lip; Tommy feels it like teeth in his own.

 _Please_ , Tommy thinks, desperate, and watches as Lovett does, come getting all over Tommy's hand, Lovett making these helpless noises like he's trying so hard to keep them back. It feels—it feels—Tommy is holding off with effort; it's almost like it's happening to him, his balls so tight, but he wants to _watch_ first. He needs to.

He doesn't know what Lovett's hearing, how much he's giving away. It could be everything; he doesn't have space or time to care.

Lovett’s so gorgeous like this, still tight with Tommy’s reflected need even now that he’s come. Now, Tommy can let go, can let Lovett’s grip work its wonders on him. 

He feels Lovett wanting to pull out the stops for him, wanting to do more than this, suck him or finger him or—and just the idea that he’s offering does it, Tommy shaking and coming into Lovett’s warm hand. 

Like last time, their thoughts go quiet, after. This time, with them touching, the neighborhood voices don’t crowd in. Lovett reaches past him for a cloth from a stack on the nightstand and they clean up. Tommy feels weirdly calm and thoroughly exhausted, moments from sleep. 

He curls towards Lovett when they're done; it feels weird, after something so intense, to be lying on his own. Lovett feels... happy and warm about it, and there's something else, something big and conflicted, but both of them are too tired for it to take shape. Tommy butts his head against Lovett's shoulder like a cat, sleep-drunk, wanting the contact. His head is quiet too. It's just him and Lovett.

***

Tommy wakes up to Lovett’s sunrise alarm, warm light and birdsong. Lovett’s stirring next to him, foot against Tommy’s leg, still just them in his head. 

"Are we going to work?" Tommy asks, and Lovett runs through a dozen thoughts too fast for Tommy’s morning brain to catch before saying, "Yeah," and rolling up and out of bed. 

"I never sleep this well," Tommy muses, and he feels Lovett being—pleased, on his way to the bathroom.

It's weird, feeling this ... rested. It lasts even when they're not touching, when Tommy is showering—he _isn't_ thinking about yesterday afternoon, he isn't—even when Lovett loses his keys and his wallet and his phone in a ten-minute period, just before they're due to head out. Everything seems quieter today. The neighborhood voices are still there, but they seem easier to bear. Maybe everyone else is feeling tired.

It means that when they finally get to work, he can actually _work_. Lovett’s still loud in his head, but Lovett’s working, too, a constant buzz that doesn’t distract him much. The office voices seem so muted, and he’s thankful. Maybe he’s learning to cope with this telepathy thing. 

The day is almost normal, in a way that’s a relief far past what Tommy was expecting. He gets through most of his email and manages some reasonably normal water-cooler conversations with the interns, even.

He can hear when Lovett's ferocious concentration ebbs: Lovett starts mentally composing a tweet, going over a couple different options, and Tommy snorts. "That one," he says, when Lovett looks up at him, corner of his mouth quirking.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tommy says. "Got a good ring to it." A dawning awareness is settling that Lovett isn't the only one looking at him. The background chatter in his mind starts to feel uneasy, which means the people around him are feeling uneasy. Maybe they also forgot, just for a second, what Tommy and Lovett can do.

"Don’t, uh, worry," Tommy tells the room at large. "I’m getting really good at tuning everybody but Lovett out."

"I’m offended," Lovett says, but he’s grinning. His thoughts feel warm and pleased. "But also, same."

Jon looks fascinated. "So it’s changing? Do you think it’s fading? There’s a piece in the Post saying the newest research suggests it might not be permanent."

Tommy shrugs. The idea of "might not be permanent" is only marginally less scary today than it was that first morning in London. He’s been avoiding reading about the research, the theories, the awful stories everywhere about people being jailed or killed because their thoughts were overheard. Jon and Dan can talk about the state of the world After Telepathy; Tommy and Lovett have to live it.

"That'd be nice," Tanya says. She shrugs when Tommy turns to her. "What? It'd be good to get Mukta and the others back. I know you don't want to talk about it—no one needs to be telepathic for that—but we are eventually going to need a ... strategy. For all the what ifs."

"Yeah, sure," Lovett says, so casually it would be easy for anyone not in his brain to believe it. "Eventually. You know what we need right now? Coffee is what we need right now. Jon, are you buying?"

The conversation switches for minute to coffee orders, and Jon's good-natured complaining about being the errand boy. Tommy is so grateful for it that it takes him a minute to chime back in, and, when he does, Lovett is looking at him over the desks. _it'll be okay_ , Lovett thinks at him, _c'mon. you're okay_.

Tommy takes a couple of deep breaths. It'll be okay. Whatever the reason he's getting better at turning the noise down, it really is better; he only barely has a headache, this morning.

If it keeps on like this, he might be able to sleep at home, even. Unless it goes back to loud when he can't hear Lovett. But he could take the guest bedroom, maybe. That's ... an option. _Elephants elephants …._ Maybe he wishes it weren't an option, but he's not going to think about that. He's going to think about these emails, and whether he can actually record his pod next week, and while he's at it, thank Erin and Alyssa for filling in for him and Lovett on Monday. He doesn't know who Jon's lining up for next Monday; maybe the one after that, he and Lovett will be able to record, again, without risking saying anybody's inside thoughts out loud.

He just wants to get back to _work_. He wants everyone to be able to come back to work, to be able to be around someone and not worry about what they're worrying about. He wants Lovett to be able to have Pundit back.

He can feel Lovett's flash of pleased surprise at that. 

"Tom?" Jon is getting up. "Coffee?"

There's a ding from the little hallway where they've been squeezing the interns in during the hunt for new office space. Tommy hears, surprisingly loud for the layout of the office, one of the interns saying "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck_." 

He jumps up, heading for the hallway. "Jessie, are you okay?" 

It's only when he cranes his neck around and sees no one but him—and Lovett—has reacted that he realizes. Jessie looks up at him, and he can't mistake the fear, the way she's realized her boss just read her mind when something obviously private and unfortunate was happening. Tommy doesn't even know what it was, isn't having that much trouble tuning her out now, but what he can't tune out is the way they're _all_ getting scared and uncomfortable. 

"Uh," Jon says, behind him, dropping a hand on his shoulder, "Tommy, why don't you and Lovett come with me to get the coffees. I've only got two hands."

"Sure," Tommy says, almost on autopilot—when Jon asks something, now, he doesn't really have to think before he does it—but he can't start moving for a second, frozen. The undercurrent of fear in his brain is nauseating, and cold. "Yeah, uh. Sorry. I'm sorry."

"No worries," Jessie says, which Tommy would have seen through even if he couldn't feel her thoughts swirling. He doesn't need telepathy to understand _don't rock the boat, don't piss off the boss._

"Jessie, you want to take off?" Jon asks. "We'll call it a PTO freebie?"

Jessie glances at the other interns, says, "No, no, I'm fine." 

Tanya swoops in, before any of them can make it worse, and starts unceremoniously shooing them out the door. "Get me an extra shot of espresso," Tanya says. "We'll talk about this later." Her tone brooks no disagreement.

Lovett brushes his hand against Tommy's like a question on their way out, and Tommy tugs away a little. He doesn't want to be alone in his head right now, he wants to let himself get lost. He wants to hear people thinking about their mornings and their lunch plans, the new Starbucks drink, the cute girl in the snapback hat, and their broken air conditioner. He doesn't want to hear himself trampling over their intern's privacy. He definitely doesn't want to hear what Jon thinks about it.

Lovett, in the back of Tommy's head, is sympathetic, which is almost worse.

Jon waits until they're halfway to Blue Bottle, standing at a corner waiting for the light to change, before he says, "So—the staff's kind of antsy about this whole thing. I don't have a great solution for that, but we should talk about it."

"We're not particularly interested in what everybody's thinking they want for lunch," Lovett says, his tone mulish. "Trust me, it's way more boring than you think."

Jon crosses his arms. "Just because you don't want to listen in doesn't mean you're going to forget if you hear them being annoyed with you or thinking about—I don't know, getting pregnant soon, something that's an HR nightmare. Stuff we're not supposed to be privy to."

Tommy says, "We get it, but it's not like we're the only workplace dealing with this. The whole world's dealing with this. It's just the way things are, right now."

"That doesn't mean it's any less our problem," Jon says. The light changes and they cross. "We still have to—deal with it."

Generally, Jon's thoughts have run either worried, intent, or content. Happy, when he talks about Emily. There's a tone of unhappiness in there now, and a kind of concern about _them_ , Tommy realizes. Not _for_ them, although that's there too.

Lovett, starkly and suddenly, hears it too. He misses a half-step, catches up.

Tommy doesn't mention it, because that would only prove Jon's point. Instead, he says, "We'll give it the afternoon. This morning was fine, right?"

"Uh—fine-ish," Jon says. "Maybe just take your laptops and sit in Big Marco for the afternoon? Out of sight, out of—uh, well. Bad idiom." 

Lovett calls the couch, once they're back and the coffees are handed out. Tommy prefers the table, anyway. It's not quieter in here—everyone's just as close—and it's not clear to him that it's having any measurable impact on the staff's nerves. He tries to tune it out, though, and reply to a couple of upcoming guests about scheduling and accommodations.

He can hear Lovett working, as much as he tries to focus on his own work. Lovett's louder than ever—not in a bad way, but strange and distinctive. The quieter the other voices get, the more Lovett's stands out.

Tommy has been on a pretty strict social-media blackout about all of this, getting his necessary news filtered through Jon, but something about this makes him open up a browser window and tentatively type "telepathy one person louder than the rest" into Google.

The first few results are all news pieces. Everything about this is still news, really; everyone is learning on the fly. Still, it's comforting to know that this is happening to other people too, that it's not just the two of them somehow separate from the rest of the world even in this weird-ass way. The next link down is from some science journal. Tommy clicks that, scrolls through it.

 _Increasing Reports of Telepathic Bonding_ is the headline, and the subhead is the much creepier _Thousands reporting deeper connections, stronger link with 'silence effect' partners_.

Tommy starts scrolling. By the time he's a few paragraphs down, Lovett has snapped his laptop shut and is just staring at Tommy; Tommy doesn't need to look up to feel his attention, these days. 

The article says people like him and Lovett, who can touch to shut down the outer world, are reporting forming "bonds" that make the rest of the world quieter even when they're not touching, but also that they're seeing much deeper into each other's thoughts. "Several patients in the current NIH study have reported a growing inability to hide thoughts from their 'bond' partner, and a sense that each person has some ability to rifle through the contents of the other person's head. Said one, 'it used to be just whatever we were thinking about right then, but now it's _everything_.'"

Lovett's panic flares up bright and immediate. Tommy can feel the effort he takes to squash it back down. Lovett's thinking about—about yesterday, about the way they pressed together in his bed. The way it felt like there was nothing between them, like they could think the same things.

"Lovett," Tommy says, out loud, because it feels important to anchor something out of their heads right now. "It's—we don't know—"

Focusing on Lovett might have been the wrong move, because he _is_ getting more. He has been getting more—that's where that memory came from, of Lovett and Chris, and the—fuck, the one he's getting now, of Lovett having a panic attack at a desk in what must be Hillary's 2008 campaign office, Lovett unable to catch his breath and terrified that someone will see him like this, like _Tommy's_ seeing him now. The ones that follow fast on its heels: Lovett realizing, alone in a closet-sized room in New York, that he’s not going to make it in stand-up; Lovett, in his house, looking up at his desk and thinking that he hasn’t written a word in months, that he’ll have to go crawling back to politics where at least someone will force deadlines on him. Lovett, crying his heart out at 22 and 26 and 30. Lovett, at his lowest and most alone.

"Don't—" Lovett says, raggedly, barely a voiced word, and then he's skittering out of the conference room so fast Tommy's left blinking at the spot he was occupying. He can still hear Lovett, as much as he's trying not to. Lovett taking the stairs down two at a time, hating this, wanting to be as far away from Tommy as he can manage. Skipping right past the parking lot because Tommy drove them in this morning, just heading for his own house at a desperate sprint. By the time he slows to a jog, he's almost out of range, and Tommy's been sitting and staring at nothing, listening for him, for what must be fifteen minutes.

He hears Jon approaching the conference room before he hears the knock on the door. "Everything okay?"

"Uh," Tommy says, and wrenches his gaze away from the empty couch. "Yeah, just... it's a lot, you know? Lovett needed—" not to have Tommy pawing through his head "—space." Jon nods like he understands, getting that concerned crease between his eyebrows. "I'll stay in here, I think," Tommy says. "Probably we all need a bit of space."

Lovett's voice leaves his head. Tommy would have noticed it even if he wasn't trying to pay attention, because the moment he's gone, Tommy's head is back to full-scale tumult. _Fuck_. He's gonna need some more Advil. 

"Okay," Jon says. "Let me know if you need anything." He hovers a moment, wanting to help, wanting to do something. Tommy doesn't need the telepathy to read Jon. "Can I bring you a snack?"

"You can bring me the Advil and some water," Tommy says. "Thanks."

Jon brings the good NatureBox snacks too, and puts his hand on the back of Tommy's neck before he goes, squeezes slightly. He used to do that in Chicago, when Tommy had migraines and too much work to leave the office. Jon's thinking about that too, and about the time he found Tommy fully asleep, passed out over his White House desk, empty coffee cup knocked over. 

Tommy is thinking about Lovett.

If it's this loud for him, again, it must be for Lovett, too. Lovett probably didn't even know that would happen when he got out of range; Tommy certainly didn't. So he might be at home right now, in pain, and maybe too embarrassed to come back. 

Tommy's not going to leave him like that. He'll give it to the end of the work day, give Lovett some time to be upset, and then he'll go over and give Lovett an easy out. Maybe he should bring food, too. 

He doesn't really manage to get back to work, and he doesn't make himself read anything else about telepathy, but he does seduce Leo into the conference room and cuddle with him for a while. It helps. "I'm glad I can't hear your thoughts," Tommy tells him, face pressed into Leo's fur. "You're not scared of me." It makes his chest tight, hearing—now back at full volume—how much the staff is uncomfortable, still. How much they wish he weren't there.

Leo wuffles slightly, moves around in Tommy's arms until he's comfortable. Tommy sort of wishes he _could_ hear what Leo is thinking. He bets it's peaceful, being a dog. Instead, it's a couple hours until he can take his next dose of Advil and he can't stop thinking about Lovett in 2008, hunched over, white-knuckling the edge of his desk. Can't stop hearing the others in the office and how wary they are of him. Jessie is worried about how much he heard that morning. Tanya is—god, even _Tanya_ —wishing he'd go home.

It's quarter to five; he usually stays to six, with the late-arrival staff, but it's not like he's contributing very well right now, anyway. He picks Leo up, and his laptop, and for good measure Lovett's laptop, abandoned on the couch. Jon gets up to take Leo back when Tommy walks into the main room, waves Leo's paw at him. Doesn't try to make Tommy stay. He's glad Tommy's leaving; Tommy can hear it, and even though it's mostly because he wants Tommy to feel better and comfortable and to go rest, it hurts.

Jon must figure that out, because his mouth twists unhappily. "Tom," he starts, but Tommy really—can't. 

"It's okay," he says, because Jon can't read _his_ mind and always does better with reassurance than without. "Hey, no, really. It's weird, man, I get it. We'll figure something out."

"We will," Jon says; he sounds determined every way he can. "We'll make it work. We're not—we're not leaving you."

That's Jon all over, hitting overly earnest overly fast, but it still makes Tommy's throat feel tight. "I appreciate it, dude," he says, and leaves.

He picks up burritos on his way, gets one with extra guac, the way Lovett likes. He can feel when he first drives back into Lovett's radius: his head feels lighter, suddenly, the voices a little quieter. He can't hear Lovett yet but he knows he's there. It means he can take a proper breath for the first time in a while. Fuck.

He’s not sure Lovett hears him; what he’s getting is closer to asleep Lovett than the buzz and activity of awake Lovett. He thinks about calling first, warning him, but they don’t _do_ that. It would be weirder than Tommy just showing up with food.

He figures Lovett must know he's there when he pulls up to the house. He has a key, but he knocks. It's a mile away from the other night, when Tommy peeled in in the early hours, head splitting open, and Lovett fell out to meet him, to help.

It's deeply weird, arriving at Lovett's and not immediately hearing a flurry of excitement from Pundit. He regrets thinking that as soon as he does; feels Lovett's thoughts kick back in properly with a twist of misery at not having his dog. Great comforting work Tommy is doing. Real stellar.

Before Lovett answers the door, Tommy hears him not wanting to, a surge of emotion it’s impossible to miss. Tommy wants to call "it’s just me!" through the door, but Lovett _knows_ it’s him. It’s Tommy he doesn’t want to see. 

The door opens, anyway. "I need to—not do this," Lovett says. His voice is groggy, but his head is fully awake, racing, trying to hide. Tommy sees—Lovett getting home, panting, sweaty, furious and frustrated. Crying, and being so angry that he’s crying that it makes him sob harder. Falling asleep despite the pain in his skull from all the voices coming back full-volume.

Tommy struggles to keep a straight face, struggles harder to stop himself reacting any other way. He's seen Lovett cry twice, properly, in their lives and Lovett hated both times. Lovett's eyes are still red, now. There's a pillow crease on his face. 

Tommy holds out the bag of burritos. "I brought food," he says, lamely. "Are you—"

"I said I can't do this," Lovett snaps. "What do you want?"

Tommy can feel his own irritation rising. "To keep you from having a killer headache? To make sure you're not alone?" He shoves it down, because that's not really— "To apologize for seeing stuff you don't want me to see. It's not on purpose, it's just ... happening. You know."

"I don't," Lovett says, tightly. He grabs the burrito bag and pulls out the top one, shoves the bag back at Tommy. "I don't know, because somehow it's only been my privacy getting invaded, here, so just—go home, Tommy."

"It hasn’t just been you," Tommy argues, before he can think better of it. 

Lovett's mouth turns mean. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Your college boyfriend. Sure does feel the same as—" he cuts himself off, shakes his head. "That's not what I meant." He feels sorry about that one, even through the anger. "And you don't need to worry about my head. It's not like it's any of your business."

"Lovett," Tommy says, holding his hands out, "I know this sucks, but—"

Lovett slams the door between them. 

Tommy stares at the door for a long moment, and then it opens again, startling him. He didn’t know Lovett could still startle him, since London, but Lovett stalking past Tommy to his own car and driving off—that sure fucking does it.

Tommy reaches out, as hard as he can, trying to find Lovett somewhere in his mind—and then has to recoil, sharp and sudden, pain lancing through his head. It's like someone slammed his hand in a door, just as final, but it's not his hand, it's his mind, and it sure as fuck wasn't an accident. He staggers back, has to catch himself against Lovett's front door.

Lovett's out of range before he gets his balance again. Tommy hopes he isn't speeding through any red lights, hopes Lovett can focus on the road through—everything. Hopes he's not headed to the middle of the desert like some people have been doing. 

He texts Emily. _If Lovett shows up at your house, can you just text me that he's safe?_ He knows it's likely to scare her, that he should rephrase it, but his head is pounding worse than ever and his throat is tight and he just doesn't have the energy for any of this.

He doesn't have the energy to drive home, either. He lets himself into Lovett's and drops onto the couch with a pillow over his face, and wishes he could fall asleep the way Lovett had.

He wishes Pundit were here. He wishes _Lovett_ were here, that he could reach out and touch his wrist and stop the thumping in their heads and—and—take it back, somehow, unsee what he saw, if that's what Lovett needs. He doesn't _want_ to know anything Lovett doesn't want him to know, not really.

His phone buzzes after a while. Emily. _He's here, he's safe_ , she says. She doesn't say he's okay, which makes sense. Tommy isn't.

He wonders if this is going to be his life, now. Everyone fearing him, even if they're careful to hide it. Lovett running away from him. Jon pitying him. He wonders what his neighbors would say if they knew—if there's going to be some kind of latter-day witch hunt, once people get tired of being surrounded by telepaths they can't avoid. 

He's being maudlin and stupid. He needs to sleep, even if it's barely six. He needs to just ... shut down his brain, as much as he can.

He finds Ambien in Lovett's medicine cabinet, when he gives up and goes looking. It's a start.

Even getting into Lovett's spare bed feels like taking too much; he grabs the blanket off the end of the couch and wraps himself in it, lying full out, letting himself hide his face in the couch cushions. He didn't know Lovett still had Ambien, thought maybe he'd left it behind with DC and insomniac nights with Tommy, both of them pretending they were up by choice.

His phone goes. Emily again. _Let us know if you need anything, okay?_  
He wonders how Lovett is, what kind of state he arrived in. He squeezes his eyes shut. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

The Ambien works well enough, knocks him out so that he gets a few solid hours of sleep, but his dreams are fitful and harried and he can't remember them well when he wakes up, some time near enough the morning that he doesn't try to get back to sleep. Lovett was shouting at him, he thinks. That figures.

His head hurts, if anything, more than the day before. Jesus.

He wanders through the house with a crick in his spine and not a small amount of nausea. He lets himself out again and drives to his own house. He’s not going to work today; he’s done with being the source of everyone else’s stress. He can’t think like this, anyway, with his neighbors’ idle thoughts driving his own out. 

It’s a shitty day. It gives him too much time to feel sick about Lovett fleeing his own home just to get away from Tommy.

He picks up his phone about twenty times to text Emily and ask about Lovett, and every time decides it would be a shitty, unfair thing to do. He's reached the medical limit of Advil. His head aches so much he spends part of the day sitting miserably and preemptively on the bathroom floor in the dark.

He hopes Lovett is feeling better than this. He hopes Lovett is feeling exactly the same. He hopes—he hopes Lovett is okay.

The thing about pain and boredom is they don't leave him with a lot of energy for denial. Tommy's always been pretty good at denial. Repression, avoidance—he can rock the whole package. But. 

He wants Lovett back because he wants Lovett back. He misses Lovett, not just the reduction of pain, and not the way he misses Favs or Shomik or his mom. It's more than that. It's been more than that for a long time, maybe, but since London he hasn't been able to avoid the thought as much as he could before. 

It's the biggest secret he's been keeping. Most of his NatSec secrets are long out of date, enough that he wasn't rounded up to go to Montana with half of the current team and almost the whole CIA. He's not that worried about them, now he's had some time to reflect. But his feelings about Lovett—he doesn't know how they haven't gotten out. He doesn't know how he'd have handled it if Lovett saw that. Or if Lovett saw something—awful about Tommy, one of Tommy's biggest regrets or worst embarrassments. It would probably have been enough to make him leave his own house.

He's spoiled for choice, really, about what Lovett could have seen. He goes over a lot of the options there on the bathroom floor, trying to drown out the drilling in his temples. Someone a street or so away is having a blazing argument. Someone nearer is crying. There's a newborn baby somewhere else that's happy as anything but so distinct from all the other noise that it's almost painful in itself.

He eats like he's sick, crackers and juice, and eventually just drags a blanket back into the bathroom and curls up there, stomach heaving, and manages to catch a few hours sleep.

He wakes up feeling slightly better, mostly because it’s 5AM and no one’s awake. Their dream thoughts are easier to handle now, not as—pushy, or something. 

The physical improvement only makes it easier to dwell on the emotional regret, though. Tommy has been vividly remembering his demand that Lovett tell him a secret to even things up, after the Bradley revelation. Lovett hasn’t asked for that. Lovett hasn’t tried to make Tommy answer for these things they can’t control, but Tommy did that to him. 

He levers himself up and goes to find his laptop.

He opens his inbox and just ignores all the unread emails. They can wait. Lovett shouldn't have to.

Tommy has to stop thinking of Lovett like this, wrapped in a blanket at Jon and Emily's, feeling like shit. He left his own _house_. Lovett's need for privacy is higher than almost anyone Tommy's ever known outside of the sitroom, and he's not pushed Tommy for anything at all while this has been happening, has only pushed him away.

If Lovett were here, Tommy would say... he'd say....

He starts typing.

_Lovett,_

_I'm sorry I've been seeing your secrets. I can't imagine how shitty that feels, and I can't unsee them, so I'm going to give you some of my own, instead. Hopefully this email doesn't get hacked, I guess._

_Okay, starter, worst childhood memory. This is not actually that easy to type out. It sucks, actually. But that's the point, so. Here goes. When I was about fourteen and deep in my crank call phase, I got a friend to call my dad and convince him that his sister was in the hospital in critical condition. I looked up a bunch of medical terms to make it seem real, and I wrote out a whole script. My dad cried on the phone and my friend hung up on him. He found out it wasn't real pretty fast, but I could never bring myself to tell him it was me and apologize, because he took it so hard—he was a mess that evening, talking about what kind of awful person would make up a lie like that. I don't know, maybe he did know it was me, but obviously now I'll ... never know, you know? And never be able to apologize. And it hurts._

Tommy pauses, tips his head back against the cabinets. His stomach is roiling, and it's not from the telepathy.

_I don't think I've told anyone that before._

He knows he hasn't. It's sat heavily and horribly in his stomach since then—twenty years and change, Christ—and it's the first time he's made himself say it. Or, well. Type it.

This is more draining than he was expecting. Going back through all the things you've hidden, all the things that made you feel small and ashamed—it's not exactly an exercise in self-fulfillment. 

_You know most of my worsts from DC, though I'm sure you wish you didn't. You lived with me after ... you lived with me that year, so, you saw most of them. I don't think I told you about the time I barfed outside the sitroom, though. I guess everyone else got used to some of that stuff pretty quick, and no one said anything when I came back, but it just felt like everyone knew I couldn't hack it. That I was just some press kid in over his head. You know I had panic attacks too, right? Please don't think it was just you._

He thinks again, tries to take some deep breaths. 

_I lost my dad's watch. God, I can't even—this is horrible, Lovett. I'm sorry I saw what I saw._

_I wasn't supposed to even, like, touch it—it was his dad's before him, and_ his _dad's—like, every Thomas Vietor owned this watch. My dad got it turned into a wristwatch from a pocket watch with one of his first paychecks after he joined the military, so he wouldn't lose it on tour. Literally, he treasured it as this part of our history, and you can kind of tell the family history was important to him, what with the name thing, right? So the watch was really important. And I thought it would be super cool to show off to some friends, and then I put it back in my backpack and forgot about it until I got home, and it just ... wasn't there anymore. I've never cried so hard in my life, Lovett. I missed the next day of school because I couldn't stop crying. My parents were so disappointed. My dad was angry, but then they were both just—I don't know, appalled. Kind of ashamed, maybe, that their son would be so thoughtless._

_I guess these are mostly family stories. But that's the thing, right? Like, the ones that are the worst are when you hurt the people you love the most. Which kind of gets me to my next point._

_I love you._

He looks at it on the screen for a minute, typed out in black and white. There it is.

_And I know you know that I love you and Jon, I know you do, but I don't think you know—I've tried not to say—_

_That's the thing, I think. That's what I was most scared of you seeing in my head. I’ve been scared of other stuff too, like, god, that we'd end up hating each other, or we'd go crazy from it, actually fully crazy, or that the world would turn on its axis and the great ugly well in people would overflow and they'd come for us, all of us. Thriller movie stuff, you know? But none of that scared me as much as you seeing that I love you. I really—this seems so juvenile written down—I just love you. Have for years._

Tommy thinks, fleetingly, that he could delete all of this. He could try something else, something lower-stakes. He could just wait for Lovett to calm down—he will, Lovett's not big on grudges and he knows Tommy can't help this.

He hits send, without even adding his name at the bottom, and then he goes into his bedroom to try to sleep a little longer.

***

He wakes up with a start a couple hours later. At first he can't place why—his heart is racing; everyone around him is waking up, getting louder in his head—but then it's obvious, blindingly obvious. He can hear Lovett again, like he's yelling; Tommy can't quite make out words, just this shove of emotion, jangling and consuming. He sits up in bed, thinks, _Lovett?_

—and his bedroom door bangs open.

"You are the most infuriating—" Lovett splutters, not finishing his sentence. "I was doing just fine, you know, thinking telepathy has turned you into a jerk, and then you have to go and—" He stops again. In the dim light, Tommy can see his chest heaving. He can hear the turmoil in Lovett's brain, the confusion and ... happiness, he thinks. 

Lovett stares at him, and the happiness, the fucking _joy_ Tommy's feeling just ratchets up and up until Tommy can barely feel anything else. "Oh," Tommy says, which doesn't quite capture any of this. "You—really?"

" _Yes_ , really, you ridiculous—" Lovett stops again, but Tommy hears the rest of it like surround sound, _wonderful, generous, sexy menace_.

Tommy can't distinguish his joy from Lovett's anymore. "You should come over here," he says. "You're all the way over there, and you should be over here."

" _You_ come here," Lovett says, but he's crossing the room fast, and Tommy grabs for him as soon as he's within reach, hauls him forward, and then they're—they're— _kissing_ , God, Lovett's mouth eager on his, clumsy as Lovett tries to scramble onto the bed. Everything else is silent; it's just him and Lovett and this elation like Tommy's never known, twofold, Lovett's bubbling endless wonder everywhere, Tommy trying to get his hands under Lovett's wrinkled shirt, just to feel the strong planes of him under his palms.

Tommy had thought the handjobs they've been carefully not talking about had been, would be, the height of what this telepathy could be good for, but he'd had no goddamn idea. This is so much more than that. The lust is there— _Christ,_ it's there, he wants Lovett so much, and he can feel Lovett wanting him back—but this is to that like ... like a simile he doesn't have the brainspace to work on.

"Candle to a forest fire," Lovett mumbles, leaning down to kiss Tommy's neck, right where he likes it the most. 

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, and then his phone starts ringing. He's entirely prepared to ignore it, except Lovett's is, too.

Lovett feels as antsy as Tommy does about stopping right now, which is hugely gratifying. Tommy has to fight down Lovett's arousal with his own when he grabs for his phone. It's Jon.

"Hey," Jon says, when Tommy picks up, before Tommy can even say hello, "huge news!"

Tommy has a split-second's thought of _how does he know already?_ before his brain catches on that there probably is other news in the world besides him and Lovett getting together. If that's what this is. He hopes that's what this is. He's pretty sure.

Lovett, next to him, covers the mic on his own phone and whispers, "It is. Pay attention to Jon now."

Jon's still talking, and Tommy's missed half of it. "Sorry, can you—rewind?"

"It's ending," Jon says, and Tommy hears a not-quite-echo of Emily telling Lovett the same thing. "Apparently a lot of people have stopped being telepathic already, and they're saying except for a handful of outliers, everyone should be cured by the weekend. And like _everyone_ everyone by next weekend." 

Tommy's stomach leaps with relief, coring through him. "Really?" He doesn't think Jon would joke about this, not at all, but it's hard to believe that this could... stop. "We could get our own heads back?"

"Yeah!" Jon sounds nothing but delighted. 

Lovett is saying, "Does anyone know how the timescale works? What are the variables?" and Emily's is saying something fond and indecipherable back. They're going to go back to normal. Tommy's going to have his head back. He's—not going to be able to hear Lovett any more.

And, okay, it's ridiculous, and it's definitely for the best, but he can't help but feel a preemptive sense of loss.

Lovett turns, phone still to his ear, and catches Tommy's eye. His free hand finds Tommy's. Emily says, "... still not sure what caused it." Jon says, "Andy's already better." Lovett, inside his head, says, _We should have sex again right now before it goes away._

"Jon, that's fantastic. Give my best to Andy. I've gotta go, there's a—my mom's on the other line. Sorry, sorry. Yeah. Thanks again for calling." Tommy clicks the phone off while Jon's still halfway through his salutation. Lovett says, simply, "Thanks, Emily. Gotta go celebrate now," and hangs up on her.

"So, uh," says Tommy, willing to give it a second if they need, and Lovett says, " _What are you doing?_ " and throws himself at him. 

Lovett is compact and strong: he knocks the breath out of Tommy and Tommy doesn't care. He falls back onto the mattress, Lovett going with him, and their shared feed of _thank god_ hunger goes from a simmer to a burn in nothing flat.

Tommy wants everything, everything in the whole world of sex, starting with the basics. He wants to taste Lovett—he wants to devour him. He wants to touch him everywhere. He wants to finger him open and push into him and make him beg for _more, harder, faster_. He wants Lovett to suck his cock. He wants a million more exotic things, things he's only seen in porn, things he's not sure they're flexible enough for. Everything.

"Yeah," Lovett gasps, because his wants are in there, too, rising up through Tommy's brain like bubbles. He wants, most of all, for Tommy to fuck him, to make him ache from it.

 _Jesus_ , Tommy thinks, and says it too, getting his hands on Lovett's ass and gripping tight. "Fuck," and he flips them, Lovett landing on his back and bouncing into the pillows, startled and horny for it. He's chasing Tommy's mouth like he's starving.

Tommy's full up on want, but it's not like last time—it's better, bigger. It's overwhelming in a completely different way, a way that makes him want to murmur endearments into Lovett's skin, into his ear, into his mind. He supposes he probably is getting his message across, because he can hear Lovett thinking them back, surrounding him with fondness and joy and affection. It’s impossible, even if Tommy had wanted to hold back, not to think _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , until it’s just the background noise of Tommy’s brain.

Tommy wants this to be so good for Lovett, and the telepathy is on his side, now. When he kisses Lovett just right, he can feel it. When he slides a possessive hand up Lovett's thigh, he gets not just Lovett's sucked-in breath but the stir of arousal in his belly.

Tommy could get used to this. Or—he won't, because they won't have it soon, but he's going to fucking make the most of it now.

He doesn't need to ask Lovett what he wants, if it's good; he can just do what gets him the best reaction, what makes his own breath come faster, a reflection of Lovett's. He kisses him until Lovett is squirming under him, hands restless on his back, and Lovett's mind is full of pictures of Tommy driving into him, Tommy making him beg.

Tommy wants that, he wants it so much, but he also wants—more, something—he wants to show off, maybe, wants to do something special. Maybe that's silly. 

_It is_ , Lovett sends him, _but I like it_.

Tommy takes him at his word, starts peeling Lovett's sweats off. Starts kissing up the newly bared inside of Lovett's thigh.

Lovett squirms more at that, Tommy's mouth on his soft skin. It's making him shiver, the good way, and Tommy feels it all up his own back, tightening his own nipples. Lovett is hard for him when Tommy's mouth reaches his dick, and Tommy just mouths at him over his Tommy Johns and moves away. _Fucking tease_ , Lovett thinks, but he feels happy, sending Tommy curls of pleasure.

Tommy's not sure it counts as teasing when Lovett's probably getting his intentions before he tries anything, but he likes teasing Lovett, anyway. He hikes Lovett's leg up and kisses the soft skin along the leg of his briefs, tugs at the elastic with his teeth, and Lovett groans and thinks _need more_. 

Tommy can give him more. "Flip over," he says, or he thinks he says it; either way, Lovett does it, fast enough that he almost knees Tommy in the throat on his way around.

Lovett wriggles shamelessly on his stomach, sweats still tangled round his ankles, and Tommy smiles at it, at Lovett. He's so ... Lovett, all the time. 

_What does that even mean?_ Lovett thinks, and Tommy thinks, fondly, _shut up_ , and lifts Lovett's hips, getting him on his knees. Lovett gasps, sharply, into Tommy's pillow, and Tommy drags his boxers down.

He thinks he's given Lovett plenty of warning to tell him if he doesn't want this, or doesn't want this right now, but just in case, he asks, "Can I—"

"You fucking better," Lovett says. Whatever tone he was going for is undercut by how breathy it sounds, by how much his head is saying _please just do it_. 

Tommy wants to tease him, wants to bite the soft curve of his ass and tease the backs of his knees, but just not nearly as much as he wants to get his mouth on Lovett.

This is _heady_ ; Lovett's brain starts begging long before he does out loud, it seems, and Tommy has barely rubbed his thumb, careful and teasing, along Lovett's perineum before all he can hear is Lovett's need, how instantly overwhelmed Lovett is. 

_Is this—_ Tommy starts, but doesn't get to finish the thought before Lovett is thinking, _please god please_ at him, equal parts frustrated and eager. Jesus. Tommy has to take a second to adjust himself in his pyjamas.

He likes that he can hear Lovett begging, and hear Lovett keeping from begging out loud, all at once. Lovett likes it, too, feels flushed and embarrassed and sexy and out of control. 

Tommy thinks he can top those feelings.

The first curl of his tongue against Lovett's hole makes Lovett react so loudly, inside his head, that Tommy actually jerks back. "Don't fucking _stop_ ," Lovett hisses, and Tommy laughs and reapplies himself, trying to fight down a grin long enough to focus.

Tommy loves this. He's not done it much, and not for years, but he's never forgotten how much he _loves this_. The feel of Lovett's hole, soft and wrinkled; the filthy intimacy of it. He licks again, slowly, and Lovett jerks this time, swears so loudly Tommy can't tell if it's just in his head or not. When he looks round, Lovett has the comforter in a death grip.

It feels not a small bit like Lovett's eating _him_ out, the reflection of Lovett's experience. Tommy can feel how warm his tongue is, how soft-hard, the way it lights up Lovett's nerve endings and makes him desperate to be filled. _Not yet_ , he tells Lovett, but both of their brains are overrun with the promise of it, the way they both want Tommy to flip Lovett back over and shove into him. 

_Not yet_ , Tommy tells himself, trying to catch his breath. He gets up higher on his own knees so he won't be tempted to rut against the mattress.

He keeps going, keeps holding Lovett open. He can feel how much Lovett likes it, the way Tommy's fingers aren't gentle on his ass. _Lovett_ feels like he wants to rut against the mattress, and Tommy can feel his desperation inching higher and higher as Tommy just doesn't stop, doesn't pick up the pace. The inside of Lovett's head is a mess of want, of images of what they must look like—Lovett ass-up and pushing back for more, Tommy giving it to him, fully dressed—and under that a rising need for more, _more_ , that he's biting back from saying aloud.

Tommy's pretty sure his own head is telling Lovett that he looks fucking amazing like this, like a buffet spread out for Tommy to enjoy. Like the best porn he's got bookmarked in a secret folder. _We're talking about_ that _later_ , Lovett tells him, and Tommy can hear the smirk in it. 

Lovett's soft and responsive and Tommy presses his thumb into Lovett, just a little, just to feel a hint of how good Lovett's going to feel around his cock.

Lovett makes an amazing noise, strangled and breathy, and shoves back into the touch. His whole brain is pleading; Tommy feels him clench, just slightly, against the tip of his thumb. _I love you_ , Tommy thinks, desperately, and licks hard around his thumb, slips out and sucks at Lovett's rim. He wants to _make it so good for you, gonna make you—make you cry for it—_ god, his brain is running a mile a minute, helpless, full throttle.

Lovett’s not exactly calm, either; his thoughts are breaking down into _yes please this more,_ scattered words but one very clear focus. 

Tommy thinks, hard, _I want you to come first. From this, just from this, can you?_

Lovett shudders under him. _I don't—I don't know, maybe, I—I—keep going keep going_ and Tommy can't deny him, doesn't want to, wants to lick him and suck at him just like this until Lovett can't take it anymore. Lovett makes a desperate desperate noise and cracks, pants out a sob; "Tommy, please, please," hips jerking, and he's so so close, Tommy can feel it, this just banked need coiling in his belly. Tommy's own dick aches, _aches_ , and he thinks, _I've got you, I've got you_ at Lovett, and balances, and reaches around for Lovett's dick, finding it hot and slick, fat and straining into his hand. He doesn't stroke, just holds him, and sucks harder. _Can you?_ he thinks. _Like this?_

Lovett's straining; Tommy can feel him trying, wanting. Tommy breathes heat over him, licks into him, tries to fill Lovett's head with images: how Lovett looks to Tommy right now, sexy and shiny with sweat and made for pleasure. How they're going to look when Tommy's fucking into him, maybe using Lovett's come for lube, maybe holding Lovett's ass up off the bed so Tommy can angle just right. How Tommy's going to look when he sucks Lovett off, sometime soon, on his knees if Lovett wants that, looking up at Lovett with his mouth full of cock, just—

Lovett bucks into his hand and comes, the pleasure of it rolling over Tommy in waves.

Lovett keeps shuddering through it, cock pulsing in Tommy's hand, and Tommy does his best to keep going despite the way it feels, Lovett's orgasm ricocheting around him, urgent, head to toe. Lovett's panting raggedy when he's done, body going limp; Tommy thinks _you're beautiful, you're so beautiful_.

Lovett's emotions lull, just for a moment—still warm and present, but less intense, so Tommy has a moment to breathe, to think about practicalities. "We don't have to—" he says, because maybe Lovett's tired now, maybe Tommy should just jerk off and they can fuck later. 

"If you don't get inside me in the next ten minutes, I'm going to kill you in your sleep," Lovett says, muffled into the pillow. He's laughing inside his head, which is—disconcerting and wonderful. 

Tommy has a hand lotion he jerks off with, but he thinks he has actual lube somewhere in the back of his nightstand drawer. _Good,_ Lovett sends, slumping onto his side now that Tommy's crawled out from between his legs. _You are not putting hand lotion inside me unless there are no other options._

He finds the lube eventually, and ordinarily he wouldn't tell anyone how long it took, but Lovett is warm and laughing in his mind, and Tommy can mostly drown out the other voices, and it's—nice.

"Nice?" Lovett says, landing a perfect affronted tone despite his head still being light, giddy. "You take that back."

"Not gonna happen," Tommy says, and gets back on the bed with him, runs a hand over Lovett's ass, just because he wants to. He likes that Lovett can hear how hot Tommy finds him. That Lovett can feel how into him Tommy is.

“I bet I can make it worth your while,” Lovett says, smirking. “Or be mean enough to convince you.” 

Tommy snorts, and slides his hands up fast to tickle him. Lovett must hear the intention, because he's moving faster than Tommy expects, to block him and tickle back. Tommy manages to get his fingertips on Lovett's ribs, and Lovett curls up, laughing, saying _uncle, uncle_ inside his head. 

Tommy subsides, still laughing. Lovett's under him, pink and sweet, and Tommy wants him so much, loves him _so much_. 

Also, he's lost the lube in the sheets somewhere.

"How?" Lovett demands, but he's still beaming. "Tommy, really, you gotta treat me better than this."

Tommy can't help the flash that goes through his mind of his tongue buried in Lovett's ass, Lovett pleading for more, and quirks an eyebrow.

"Okay, good point," Lovett says, grinning even wider. "You’re forgiven, as long as you can find the lube."

Tommy has a sudden realization that they’ve been mostly talking out loud. He can still feel Lovett, still hear his thoughts, but it feels less—necessary. He feels connected with Lovett because he _knows_ Lovett and loves him and loves to mess with him. He doesn’t need the other thing. 

"I don’t need it either," Lovett says, softly. 

Tommy's face is almost definitely doing something embarrassing. The inside of his head is definitely doing something embarrassing, happy and pleased and warm, and Lovett hears it, smiles at him. He gently kicks Tommy's ankle. "I do need the lube though."

"Demanding," Tommy says, resuming the search.

"You love it."

The lube reveals itself and Tommy fishes it out, holding it aloft. Lovett is on his back, sweats still tangled around his feet, t-shirt rucked up, pink and breathing hard, and Tommy has never seen anyone he's wanted more, anyone than he's loved like this. He thinks, _I do_.

His fingers shake, just a little, when he gets them slicked and back up against Lovett's hole. Lovett doesn't say anything; the inside of his head is fond and gentle. "You're easy-going after you've gotten off," Tommy says, only mostly kidding. 

"See how easy-going I am if you don't get your dick inside me immediately," Lovett says. It barely counts as a grumble; he sounds excited, more than anything. 

Tommy can feel that excitement rising in him again, too. His dick's been excited this whole time, pretty much, and he rubs it against Lovett's leg while he fingers him. Just that touch is making his eyes flutter shut.

Lovett can feel it too; Tommy knows, hears Lovett's breath catch. Lovett covers his face with a hand, laughs a bit at himself. 

"All right," he says, "all right, this is—this is—yeah, Tommy, do that again, come on—" angling his hips up, asking.

Lovett's remembering Tommy watching him come, _wanting _to watch him come, the other night; it's making him feel more comfortable now, knowing how much Tommy wants him.__

__"So much," Tommy murmurs. "Fuck, Lovett, I want to—"_ _

__"Yeah," Lovett says, fast, tripping over Tommy's sentence. "Yeah, you can, just, come on already, you spent fuckin' ages opening me up, I'm open, you can."_ _

__Tommy's lined himself up before he remembers—and Lovett is there with him, of course, hears it too, says, "You don't need one, if..." bright red all up his neck in a way Lovett rarely gets. He's thinking about, Jesus fuck, about Tommy's come dripping out of him. About Tommy pushing it back in._ _

__Tommy can't make words, but he doesn't need to. Even without the telepathy, he's pretty sure his hunger is all over his face. His cheeks feel hot, and he has to close his eyes as he pushes into Lovett, _sinks_ into Lovett, in easy little back-and-forth movements._ _

__Lovett's face when Tommy first pushes inside is—is going to stay with Tommy a long time; his gorgeous open mouth, the flush of pleasure, the way his eyes squeezed shut and snapped open, the way he wanted to—to look at Tommy_ _

__Lovett feels incredible, and Tommy can feel it on Lovett's side, too—his cock feels flatteringly huge in Lovett's mind, in his nerves, splitting Lovett open. Tommy's staring into Lovett's eyes, can't look away, even to see Lovett's body taking him in._ _

__Lovett opens his legs wider, tilts his hips. "Tommy," he says, very raw, grabs onto Tommy's shoulders. "Yeah, that's—"_ _

__His dick is twitching against their bellies; Tommy can feel Lovett's curl of too-sensitive arousal in the pit of his own stomach._ _

__He rocks in a little farther, nudges until he’s all the way into Lovett, until they both gasp at the feel of Tommy pushing flush up against him._ _

__"Don’t just—stand there," Lovett says, not exactly what he means but he’s struggling, inside his head, to make words at all. Tommy hears, _I’m fucking adjusted, **fuck** me,_ like a shout._ _

__Tommy shudders, and hears Lovett think something aggrieved and turned on about the muscles that move in his back. His hands are tight on Tommy's shoulders, moving to his back._ _

__Tommy pulls out, gently, slowly, fighting himself for it, and then—and then—fucks back in. It's electric, sharp and hot, makes him feel frantic, makes him want to thumb the head of Lovett's sensitive cock just to make him feel this ruined._ _

__"You have to—fucking just—" Lovett says, never reaching the end of the instruction, but Tommy doesn't need anything from him, not telepathy or expression, to understand what he needs. He yanks Lovett's thighs up again so he can rebalance, so he can get a hand free. So he can fuck into Lovett the way Lovett needs it and still get a hand up to his cock._ _

__Lovett whines, sharp in the quiet of the room, and Tommy doesn't give him much, just a soft touch. He wants—Christ. He wants to hear Lovett _beg_._ _

__"Fuck," Lovett pants, "that's—yeah—fuck—" and breaks off as Tommy keeps fucking him, keeps his hand soft on Lovett's hardening cock. Lovett's thinking how long it's been since he's come twice this fast. It hurts, some, but Lovett likes that. He wants to beg Tommy too._ _

__Tommy thinks, not meaning it as a rebuke, _you aren't, though_._ _

__"Earn it," Lovett says, and licks his lips. Tommy wants to lick them for him, but not as much as he wants to keep this exact angle, this exact movement that's making Lovett's reflected pleasure throb inside of Tommy._ _

__It's been a while since he last did this—he hasn't fucked a guy since college, and he hears the moment Lovett hears that, the involuntary way Lovett tightens up around him; he likes it. "Shut up," Lovett says, squirming down for more, "you've got a job, Tommy, c'mon and do it."_ _

__That’s a disturbingly got way of putting it. If this was Tommy’s job, to give it to Lovett every day, lay him out and fuck him until they’re pounding the headboard against the wall—fuck. He’d be going for some performance bonuses._ _

__"Fucking—perform," Lovett says, through his teeth, red all up his chest. It's not mean, it's just _Lovett_. Pushing, always pushing. _ _

__Lovett reaches for his own dick, and Tommy slaps his hand away, a little rougher than he means—all his energy is going into the rhythm of his hips—and feels the shock of pleasure ripple through both of them, Lovett's surprise and desire; Tommy's flare of possessiveness._ _

__The back-and-forth of pleasure is building, now, every little shift—and definitely every sharp thrust—roaring through Tommy. "You gotta—I can’t do this forever, Lovett," he gasps._ _

__"So let me touch my dick," Lovett says, not managing petulance when he’s this breathy and needy. He doesn’t, Tommy notices, move to try again._ _

__"Ask me nicely," Tommy says. He gets a loose grip back on Lovett's dick, deliberately unsatisfying._ _

__"You’re—" Lovett pauses to gasp, grinding up into Tommy’s cock. "You’re the one asking me to, to get off faster, Vietor, you do the fucking work." He’s letting his head tilt back, his thoughts focused on just these narrow points, getting fucked and getting Tommy to laugh._ _

__Tommy does laugh, but he shoves in hard and runs a finger up Lovett’s cock. "C’mon," he murmurs. "You know you want it. Beg me for it."_ _

__Lovett's making these little noises, _ah ah ah_ like he can't help it, and he's working with Tommy's thrusts, the two of them moving together. Tommy can barely tell which of them is thinking what, Lovett getting desperate again, Tommy fighting his own orgasm back. He wants to see Lovett first. He needs it. He wants Lovett to—ask—god—_ _

___Fuck _, Lovett thinks, fervent, and says, voice cracking, " _Please_."__ _ _

____"Please _what_ ," Tommy asks, and it sounds like pleading in his ears, both of them filled to the brim with need. _ _ _ _

____Lovett twists against him, thighs tightening and relaxing—Tommy can hear the way Lovett feels helpless to keep from squirming._ _ _ _

____He hears Lovett consider, and discard, sarcasm, hears him think about how much easier it is than just saying it, and then, "Please help me come, I want—wanna—"_ _ _ _

____Tommy feels bowled over by it, the deliberate vulnerability, Jesus, Jesus. Lovett is so—he's so brave, and good, and _hot_ , fucking hell, and Tommy tightens his grip for him, thumbs the head of his cock. "So good," he manages, out loud, and knows Lovett can hear him thinking _thank you_._ _ _ _

____Tommy’s swirled up in pleasure, Lovett’s and his own, physical and emotional. It’s hard to fathom there’s a world beyond the boundaries of this bed, that there are minds outside of theirs._ _ _ _

____"Come for me," he says, or thinks he says. Lovett hears him, anyway, fucking down into Tommy’s hand and back onto his cock, straining for it._ _ _ _

____Tommy feels Lovett's build of tension, that agonising moment of almost, almost, and then Lovett sobs once, shivering, and comes, spurting up his pale belly. His mind feels wiped with it, blank and hurt and good._ _ _ _

____Tommy wants to watch Lovett come every day for the rest of his life, wants to watch Lovett come like _this_ , on Tommy’s cock, working hard for it. He wants—God, he wants so many—everything, he—_ _ _ _

____He shoves in hard and comes, elbows threatening to drop him, feeling Lovett thinking, _in me, you’re coming in me_._ _ _ _

____Lovett likes it, loves it, is shaking with it, and Tommy keeps coming, gasping, wordless. He does drop down when he's done, just has to. "Sorry," he mumbles, and Lovett thinks, _shut up_ , and holds onto him._ _ _ _

____Tommy finds enough energy to pull out, and then lets himself go limp over Lovett, pressing him into the bed. He’ll feel when Lovett needs him to move. In the meantime, their legs are tangled and Lovett’s arms are around him and the world is quiet and Tommy feels truly peaceful for the first time in this presidential era._ _ _ _

_____No Trump in bed_ , Lovett thinks, a smile in it. _Not even just in your head_._ _ _ _

_____Deal_ , Tommy thinks, and hears Lovett laugh, inside and out. Lovett smells like sex and sweat and he's still wearing a t-shirt. Tommy noses at the neck of it._ _ _ _

____“You, uh. That was a good email,” Lovett says, quietly. His head says _I’m sorry.__ _ _ _

____Tommy shrugs. “We all have … things. Everybody did stupid, regrettable shit when they were young.”_ _ _ _

____He feels Lovett’s frustration before he hears it. “No, that’s—you _told_ me yours, that’s not just everybody. You didn’t have to do that. You could have just sent an apology and told me how you feel and I would have come running.” _ _ _ _

____Lovett’s still frustrated, maybe at his own efforts to get his point across; Tommy can feel his thoughts dancing, not quite where he wants them, not coming out right. “We do all have—like, the shit from my childhood is, is the reason I’m in comedy, you know? You can probably imagine some of the stuff I heard my dad say around the house, when I was figuring out I liked boys. And the kids at school, and—there’s the stuff I tell everyone, because it’s okay to make it into a joke, and there’s the stuff I’m really fucking hoping you don’t hear me thinking about, even now, because I don’t like to think about it myself and I never want you to see me like that. And you just—handed me those things.” He shakes his head._ _ _ _

____Tommy honestly isn’t getting anything except love, admiration, the desire to communicate. He doesn’t want more than that, doesn’t want anything Lovett doesn’t want to give. “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything.”_ _ _ _

____“Good, because I’m not going to,” Lovett says, and chokes out a laugh. “Seriously, I can’t—you _are_ a better man than me, Tommy. I think we’ve settled that argument.”_ _ _ _

____“We’re never going to settle that argument,” Tommy tells him, and rolls them to the side, their come-wet bellies unsticking as they go. He kisses Lovett’s cheeks, his jaw, his eyebrows. “I’m never going to agree. You’re the best man I know.”_ _ _ _

____The inside of Lovett’s head says, _We both know Obama_ , and Tommy laughs, rolls in closer, wanting to feel Lovett as close against him as they can get. “You’re so—perfect,” Tommy says. “Fuck, I love you.”_ _ _ _

____Lovett’s running through responses in his mind, ranging from sappy to self-deprecating, when their phones start ringing again._ _ _ _

____"Ugh," Lovett says. "Just answer the nearest one."_ _ _ _

____Tommy feels for one without looking, swipes to answer while he's bringing it to his ear. "'Lo?"_ _ _ _

____"Tommy?" It's Emily, and she sounds somewhere between amused and pissed off._ _ _ _

____"Uh, yup," Tommy says. It's hard to concentrate with Lovett under him, thinking very loudly that he'd like Tommy to convey the important information, please. "Nothing important has happened!" he hisses._ _ _ _

____"What?" Emily says._ _ _ _

____"Nothing," Tommy tells her. "Uh, how can I help you?" Under him, Lovett laughs, which seems fair. Tommy didn't mean to default to customer service—it's Emily, for fuck's sake—but, well. He's somewhat distracted right now._ _ _ _

____"You know this is Lovett's phone, right?" Emily asks him._ _ _ _

____Now that she mentions it, the phone doesn't feel like his. "Huh," he says. Lovett is badly smothering laughter; not smothering it at all in his mind. "I guess it is."_ _ _ _

_____Tell her_ , Lovett thinks, like a mental poke. Tommy physically pokes him back._ _ _ _

____"Is he there?" Emily asks._ _ _ _

____Tommy shifts; Lovett hisses under him, sensitive._ _ _ _

____"You could say that," Tommy says, and then winces, because that's the weirdest possible way he could have put that. "I mean, yes. He's—yes. Sorry, do you want to talk to him?"_ _ _ _

____Emily's quiet for a moment, and then says. "Tommy, did you hit your head, or—"_ _ _ _

____Lovett laughs loud enough that Emily must hear it, getting the conversation either from the tinny microphone or from Tommy's thoughts. Tommy says, "I'm—the—" He takes a deep breath. "Lovett and I have been indisposed," he tries. "Um—we—"_ _ _ _

____"Oh, for fuck's sake," Lovett says, fumbling for the phone. "Hey, Em. Tommy's giving me his promise ring. What do you need, because we've got plans to eat food and then be indisposed again."_ _ _ _

____Tomny doesn't need telepathy to get Emily's blast of relief so strong it almost loops back to annoyance; he can hear it in the noise she makes, the tone of her voice._ _ _ _

____"Thank _fuck_ ," she says, and then, sharper, "We were worried about you assholes."  
There's a noise in the background; Jon, presumably, scrambling closer. Emily says, away from the phone, "Lovett's fine; he and Tommy were fucking."_ _ _ _

____Jon’s yelp of surprise has Tommy pressing his face into Lovett's neck, laughing, feeling himself blush anyway._ _ _ _

____"Emily!" Lovett says, faux-offended. "That is _not_ what I said, you minx."_ _ _ _

____Tommy can hear her laughing. "You better fucking call us when you’re cured," he hears, tinny through the speakers and loud in Lovett’s thoughts. "We actually care about you dorks, you know."_ _ _ _

____Lovett doesn’t know how to answer that; his chest is full and fond. Tommy takes the phone. "We’ll text," he says. "Gotta run," and hangs up on a giggling Emily._ _ _ _

____Tommy is still draped mostly over Lovett and they stay there, laughter coming in peaks and waves, until Lovett shoves at Tommy's shoulder just after Tommy hears, _heavy_. Tommy rolls off him with effort—the neighbourhood voices crowd back in—and Lovett reaches out for his hand._ _ _ _

_____Noisy_? Tommy thinks, and Lovett thinks, embarrassed but sticking it out, _I just... wanted to.__ _ _ _

____Tommy has to kiss him again for that, and again for himself, and between one thing and another, they don’t really get out of bed until several hours later, when Lovett finally lays back, panting, and says, "We should go get food or I’m going to die of sex-related starvation."_ _ _ _

____They roll out of bed, reluctantly. Lovett grimaces when he stands up and Tommy can feel his flare of discomfort, his embarrassment on the line between good and bad at Tommy's come, still, somehow, slipping out of him now he's vertical._ _ _ _

____Tommy’s feelings on that subject are exclusively positive, and he lets Lovett feel it as he gets off the bed behind him, knees threatening to give out, and kisses Lovett’s shoulder. "Meet you downstairs?"_ _ _ _

____The neighborhood voices are there, but very muted now. Tommy can only really hear Lovett with any clarity. It’s—Tommy’s going to miss this. He wouldn’t have thought he could, a couple days ago, but he will._ _ _ _

____He'll miss the bursts of someone else's happiness—it's been nice, hearing good things happen in the world, regardless of how he's hearing it. He'll miss the way he can hear Lovett's madtrack trains of thought. The way Lovett can think something so cutting and keeping a completely straight face._ _ _ _

____Right now, Lovett is thinking mostly empty threats about how Tommy _better_ not be listening to him clean up. _I'm not_ , Tommy thinks, and grins at the feigned outrage Lovett volleys back, amusement all over it._ _ _ _

____Lovett comes down in a clean pair of sweats and one of Tommy's t-shirts, and Tommy wants to take him right back upstairs, feels it surge through him, and through Lovett._ _ _ _

____Lovett grins at him, plucking at the t-shirt. "I knew you’d like that. Not enough you left this on me," tilting his head until Tommy can see a reddened spot on his neck._ _ _ _

____Now Tommy really wants to drag him back to bed, but where the spirit is willing, the flesh is entirely worn out, and not a little bit sore._ _ _ _

____"You think _you’re_ sore," Lovett mutters, but he waves off Tommy’s concern, and his thoughts are more smug than anything else._ _ _ _

____He still hisses when they get in the car, though, and while Tommy really really can't help his instinctive bolt of smugness, he at least doesn't say anything out loud._ _ _ _

____"I want Chipotle," Lovett declares. "Fuel me, Thomas. You wore me out."_ _ _ _

____He wouldn't need the hickey to look like he's spent the last few hours being fucked within an inch of his life. Tommy will take him anywhere he wants to go—generally, and _specifically_ when he looks like that._ _ _ _

____"Very caveman," Lovett says, doing a voice from a bit, curling and exaggerated. He's smiling hard. "I like it."_ _ _ _

____He does, is the thing: Tommy can hear it. He's going to miss that too, just knowing when he's made Lovett happy, when he hasn't misstepped in Lovett's tangle of a mind._ _ _ _

____"I am famously a closed book," Lovett tells him. "Impossible to read, never speak my mind."_ _ _ _

____Tommy thinks, not quite wanting to admit it, that Lovett can be, though, really. He’s loud and bombastic and excitable— "Excitable?" Lovett interjects, "Like a puppy?" —but he keeps the personal stuff close to the vest._ _ _ _

____Lovett’s quiet for a moment. Tommy can hear him sorting through responses: _maybe _and _usually not with boyfriends_ and, quietly, _not with you, I’ll try not to with you.____ _ _ _

______"Okay," Tommy says, and starts the car._ _ _ _ _ _

______They do go to Chipotle, because Tommy likes to give Lovett what he wants. They order—Lovett changes his mind approximately six times in line but is unfailingly decisive when they get to the front—and they're waiting around for their food, Lovett idly checking Twitter. It's quiet in this Chipotle; not many people to think at them. Tommy keeps his hand brushing the back of Lovett's, just in case—and because he likes it, that casual touch, gentle and proprietary and telling. Lovett is letting him. Lovett wants him._ _ _ _ _ _

______He can't help but think of honeymoon periods he's had before, girls he dated in Chicago and DC. He could feel like this, this good, for _months_. He catches himself, a little embarrassed. "Not that—I mean, after that is good, too," he says, and Lovett looks up from the last dregs of his burrito bowl and says, "What?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy stares at him, and realizes—Lovett didn't hear him. Lovett didn't hear him, and Tommy can't hear Lovett._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Uh," Tommy attempts, and then clears his throat. "Uh, I don't think we're telepathic anymore."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's expression is suddenly, painfully open. Tommy feels it too, on his own—a wave of relief, and then, slower, a tug of something missing._ _ _ _ _ _

______"What am I thinking?" Lovett says, staring at him hard._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy shakes his head. Stupidly, his throat feels tight. They've spent days waiting for this, and it's _good_ , this is good, but now that it's here—_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Can you still hear me?" he asks. Lovett's shake is decisive: no. Tommy moves away from his touch, just far enough to feel that there's nothing there at all, except his own thoughts. Just his own thoughts are filling up his head right now, though. Suddenly he's struck by—what if this was just an accident of convenience? What if now they don't need each other, now there's no telepathic _bond_ , it's not ... real, for Lovett? What if Tommy's just awakened to what he could have had and he'll have to live with it, forever, by himself?_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett says, softly, "I don't need to be able to hear your thoughts to tell when you're freaking out."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy likes to think he has a pretty good poker face. Maybe Lovett's just good at reading it._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I," he starts, and doesn't know where he's going with it. "If you don't—you don't have to—" It hurts to get the words out, but he's not even halfway done before Lovett is standing up, intent._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Get up," Lovett says. "Let's—I need to not do this in a Chipotle, for fuck's sake."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Coming from anyone else, that might not have helped. But Lovett hates nothing more than other people seeing things he hasn't chosen—Tommy takes a second again to be endlessly, helplessly grateful that Lovett came back to him even when Tommy had seen what he'd seen—and that goes double for anything he wants, really wants, down deep and unperformative._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy has hope, he does. It’s not as though Lovett could hide doubts from him, before. Just—this has all been fast, and maybe now Lovett has privacy in his thoughts, he can linger on the problems, the risks._ _ _ _ _ _

______They climb into the car and Lovett grabs Tommy’s hand before he can turn the keys in the ignition. "Are you having second thoughts?" Lovett asks, voice low. "Because you look like you’re having second thoughts. You look constipated, actually, but that’s your tell. It’s that or a missile launch and I know you don’t get the inside info anymore."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"What?" Tommy tightens his hand on Lovett's without thinking. "No, I'm not having second thoughts. Not at all." Lovett's hand trembles in his, just for a second. It makes something go tight and fond in Tommy's chest. "I, uh." _Say it, Vietor._ "Thought you might be."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett almost laughs, leans back against the seat in what looks like relief. "You thought—" He pauses minutely, and Tommy can almost hear the rant forming, not because of telepathy, but because he’s known Lovett for a decade and loved him, one way or another, for nearly as long._ _ _ _ _ _

______"If you think I’m giving up on six feet of well-muscled Grade A New England beef," Lovett starts. Tommy can hear minutes of rant built up behind it; he kisses Lovett quiet, instead._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett makes a soft noise against his mouth, presses against him. There's so much sweet about Lovett that so many people wouldn't expect. Tommy loves him, all of him. “Love you,” he mumbles._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I—me too,” Lovett says, pulling back for a moment and catching Tommy’s eye. “Don’t think I, um. Said that, before. But I do.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy’s going to make him say it for real, later. He wants to hear it, all strung together, _I love you_. Or, Lovett being Lovett, _I love you, asshole_. But that can wait. Right now he feels it in the press of Lovett’s mouth, and that’s plenty._ _ _ _ _ _

______The kiss gets less sweet as it goes on. Tommy almost forgets they're in a parking lot._ _ _ _ _ _

______He thinks, distractedly, that he wants to lay Lovett out and work him over again, like this, not knowing exactly how it feels for him. He needs to know that they still work like this, but more than that, he just _wants_. Lovett’s mouth is warm and soft and familiar, by now, and he’s making soft noises._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy pulls back, just enough to talk. "D’you—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Fuck, yes," Lovett says. "Gun it." He drags Tommy in again to kiss him._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Mixed signals," Tommy says, muffled, and Lovett laughs and shoves him off._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Fine," Lovett says, reaching down to adjust himself. "Drive, then."_ _ _ _ _ _

______It's somehow even more distracting to drive next to Lovett when Lovett is hard and Tommy _can't_ feel it, can't hear Lovett trying to distract himself, can't hear what Lovett is waiting for, what he wants. LA traffic seems interminable._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy jiggles his leg, trying to get rid of some nervous energy._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett’s hand slides onto Tommy’s thigh. "I really want to get there in one piece," Tommy says, tightly._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett snorts, leaves his hand there but unmoving, not much of a distraction. "You’re a grandma driver, we’re fine. I could blow you and you’d keep going the speed limit in the center of the lane."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy sucks a breath through his nose, shakily. "Officially off the table," he says, "but—hot."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Land of fantasy only, deal," Lovett says. "Don’t worry, I’ve got a million other ideas."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy can easily believe that. Right now, he himself only has one; he wants to fuck Lovett again, the moment they can get inside his house._ _ _ _ _ _

______"What about in a parked car?" Lovett hasn't taken his hand off Tommy's thigh. "Roleplay style. 'Oh Mr. Vietor, don't crash this car, show me how well you can take it.'"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy cannot think about that right now, about spreading his legs and having Lovett, comfort-prioritising Lovett, bend double from the passenger seat to swallow down his dick. "I think you're mixing your tones."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I’ve done the method-acting roleplay stuff enough for one lifetime," Lovett says. "It’s fun, but I like spending the costume budget on Postmates instead."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy is definitely going to need to hear more about _that_ tidbit later, but right now he’s pulling into his driveway and nothing matters except getting them inside._ _ _ _ _ _

______He's clumsier with his keys than he's been in a while, and Lovett huffs out a laugh watching him. "Shut up," Tommy tells him, a laugh in his own voice, and then they're inside, the door swinging shut, Tommy getting Lovett against the wall just inside, getting their mouths—thank god—back together._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's mouth is warm and eager and his hands come up to grip Tommy's shirt. Tommy wants to wrap them up in this, just like this. He wants to make Lovett fall apart again._ _ _ _ _ _

______He shifts, rubs a thigh between Lovett's leg, letting Lovett ride against the muscle._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Fuck, that's—" Lovett cuts off to kiss him more, and Tommy can't hear the end of his sentences anymore, has to fill it in for himself. _Good_ , probably, but maybe _not enough._ It's not enough for Tommy._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Want to fuck you so much," Tommy says, because Lovett can't hear him, either. "Want you on my cock, Lovett, want—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's hips jerk against him, Lovett sucking in a harsh breath, and then he squirms out from between Tommy and the wall, sliding a hand down Tommy's arm to grasp his wrist and tug him towards the stairs._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Take your shirt off," Lovett says, as they're stumbling upstairs, and Tommy shucks it one handed, tugging it off from the collar. "That's ridiculous, you're so ridiculous," Lovett's saying, and then they're in the bedroom—the sheets are still rumpled—and he shoves Tommy down, climbs up over him. Tommy gets a hand on his ass and grinds up, nipping at Lovett's bared throat._ _ _ _ _ _

______He feels frantic, more than it seems possible he could when the bed still smells like sex, when they've only taken a Chipotle break. Lovett's just so—everything about him makes Tommy want him more. The way he's kneeling over Tommy, the way he gets loud when Tommy bites him, the way his hands move across Tommy's skin._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy reaches for Lovett's fly with shaking fingers, and Lovett peels out of his shirt, both of them working together to get Lovett bared to Tommy's touch. "Are you—we could do something else," Tommy says, because his dick is still a little sore, and he has to assume Lovett's ass is. "Anything you want."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"What I want is your fat dick in me," Lovett says, and shoves his briefs off. Tommy's not going to argue with that. The man knows what he wants._ _ _ _ _ _

______The lube is still somewhere in the sheets and Lovett fumbles for it, slicks his fingers up, reaches behind himself. "Get your dick out," he tells Tommy, and his mouth drops into a little ‘o’ as he works, eyelids fluttering. "I want—get it out."_ _ _ _ _ _

______It turns out that Tommy doesn't need telepathy to feel completely overwhelmed by how much he wants Lovett, how much Lovett wants him. He doesn't need to feel Lovett fingering himself; watching it already feels like too much, too stimulating, too perfect._ _ _ _ _ _

______He pushes his jeans down, and his briefs, struggling under the spread of Lovett's legs. It wasn't what Lovett asked for but he wants to feel Lovett's thighs on his skin, not just his ass around Tommy's cock. Besides, the zipper is a hazard._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's breath is coming in pants now, and Tommy can't stop staring at his arm disappearing behind him, at the twist of his wrist. One day he's gonna, gonna, have Lovett do this for him, lie back on Tommy's pillows and finger himself open just for Tommy to watch. Tommy tells him this. Lovett swears, and shifts up Tommy's thighs._ _ _ _ _ _

______He can see that Lovett's sore, in the twist of his features when his arm moves, but he doesn't ask again. Lovett's not exactly one to be stoic in his discomfort; if he wanted to stop, he'd stop. Instead, he's barrelling ahead, tossing the lube to Tommy with his free hand. "Get yourself wet for me," Lovett says; his voice is low and throaty and Tommy wants to kiss him until he can't breathe._ _ _ _ _ _

______He gets himself wet, instead, trying not to linger. It's impossible, how close he already feels, how much he already needs it._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett needs it, too; no one would need to read minds to see that. He shuffles up Tommy's body on his knees, pulling his fingers free and grabbing the base of Tommy's cock so he can line up over it. "God, fuck, are we—like this?" Tommy asks. He'd thought they'd roll over; he didn't think Lovett would _ride_ him. He didn't think this day could get that much better, somehow, from such a fucking good baseline._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yeah, like this," Lovett says, shifting for a better angle. "Hold still, fuck," and his thighs are tensing, the look on his face so—it's so—_ _ _ _ _ _

______He sinks a little way down, getting Tommy just inside him. "Oh, God," Tommy says, and grabs for him, not trying to move him, just needing his hands on Lovett. "Lovett, you—Jesus—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yeah," Lovett says, and there's strain in his voice. Tommy doesn't need telepathy to know the responses Lovett would make if he wasn't focused on accommodating Tommy's cock, taking it in using a series of tiny up-and-down movements. He'd say _yes, I'm extremely impressive and sexually attractive,_ in a deadpan, or something about Jesus not being quite the right epithet for the situation._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy doesn't need the mind-reading. He _knows_ Lovett, even in this new and fucking—God—overwhelming iteration._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's almost fully seated on him, lip bitten so tightly between his teeth that the skin's gone white. "You feel so fucking amazing, Love," Tommy tells him, a little embarrassed about the endearment but not enough not to say it._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I've heard that one before," Lovett says, panting, but then, "It's—you can say it, it's good."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I love you," Tommy says, breathless. That's definitely not, whatever, the etiquette when you're having sex, but it's not like he has any choice. Tommy does love him. Lovett heard him think it a thousand times earlier, just like this, with Lovett squirming around his dick. Tommy wants to say it all the time._ _ _ _ _ _

______He also wants—fuck, there—Lovett like this, settled flush against him, their thighs touching, sweat-damp together._ _ _ _ _ _

______He wants to _see_ this. "Want to watch you ride me," he says, feeling himself blush. "You look so fucking hot, Lovett, I can't even handle it."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's mouth twitches, but he doesn't say anything. He plants his hands on Tommy's chest, though, and lifts up just a little, testing out the movement and re-adjusting the angle of his torso before he does it again._ _ _ _ _ _

______He moves his legs a bit, that time, and then when he shifts it comes with a sucked-in gasp. Tommy fucking loves this, loves Lovett taking his pleasure from Tommy's cock like this. Lovett's only been half-hard since he first started taking it, but he's fattening up now, and Tommy reaches down to fist him harder._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett hisses as soon as Tommy touches him, but Tommy's watching his face and he doesn't think it's a bad way. Lovett doesn't slap his hand away; rocks into it instead, and then back on Tommy's dick. "Oh," Lovett says, "oh, that's—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy can imagine. His own dick feels hypersensitive; he's been too distracted by Lovett's—everything—to focus on it, but now it's all he can feel. Lovett's tight on him and it's so close to too much, in a way that's overwhelming, like the pleasure-pain-excitement of worrying a scab. He almost can't take it, and couldn't stand to stop._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett must be sore coming and going, and he's still working himself on Tommy's cock, still wants it. "God, you're amazing," Tommy says, feeling his heart in his throat. "You're so—I want you so much, Lovett, I just—" His hips buck before he can stop them, and Lovett's breath catches, fingers curling into Tommy's chest and nails scraping him._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Do that again," Lovett says, hoarsely, and Tommy does that again. Lovett makes a sound this time, small and mostly breath, and rocks into it, lifting up just a little way, dropping back down. "Oh, fuck," Lovett is saying, and his eyes are closing._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy says, "Look at me," and sees Lovett's dick jerk._ _ _ _ _ _

______As soon as Lovett looks at him again, Tommy plants his feet on the bed and fucks up into him. Lovett swears, but it's definitely the good kind, Lovett clawing him again and bouncing back against him._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy doesn't wait to be asked; he shoves up again, and they take a minute to get their rhythm right, Lovett coming down against him as he pushes up. It's artless, neither of them managing anything more than just this hard fuck, Tommy's hand dropping off Lovett's cock to brace on the bedspread, but it's perfect for that. It's the two of them, working together, eyes locked._ _ _ _ _ _

______Something drips down Tommy's side and he's sure it's sweat, but he wouldn't object if it were Lovett's nails making him bleed. Anything would feel incredible right now, with Lovett over him and on him and _with_ him._ _ _ _ _ _

______"You look—" Tommy pants, and can't find the words. He can't just think them at Lovett, can't show him how fucking incredible he looks like this, thighs spread and trembling with effort; how incredible he feels, hanging on to Tommy like this. He's going to leave marks; Tommy's going to feel them for days._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yeah?" Somehow, despite everything, the desperate fuck, Lovett has a note of uncertainty. "It's—good for you, right?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy almost laughs, catches himself before he can. "Yeah, Lovett, Jesus, it's—it's all I can fucking think about, getting my hands all over you. Getting to look at you. The—" He has to stop and shut his eyes for a second, feeling the way they're moving together. "The part where I get to fuck you is, like, the world's greatest bonus."_ _ _ _ _ _

______He looks Lovett over, eyes catching on the sheen of fresh sweat across his chest. " _This_ , right here—nothing's ever been as good as this."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett swallows, and swallows again, and loses his rhythm, and finds it. He says, slowly, "Well—good." Tommy grins at him, and Lovett grins back, and they've slowed halfway to a stop but Tommy couldn't care less. He strokes his thumb over Lovett's lower lip, thinking _as soon as we get off, I'm going to kiss the fuck out of you.__ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett can't hear it, but Tommy's pretty sure he gets it, anyway._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett runs his tongue over the tip of Tommy's finger, deliberate, and it's nothing compared to what they've done—what they're _doing_ , Jesus—but it makes Tommy's stomach cramp with want, his spare hand tighten on Lovett's thigh._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's breath stutters. "Fucking—" and he cuts himself off, rocks back on Tommy's dick. "Please, please."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy couldn't hear him decide to let that out this time, but it's no less devastatingly effective._ _ _ _ _ _

______He needs it as much as Lovett does, wants Lovett to hear that from him. "Yeah, baby, gonna—gonna fucking give it to you so good, make it so good for you." He adjusts his feet, spreading his knees so it's easier to fuck up into him. Lovett's readjusting, too, both of them giving up on eye contact to focus on this, now, on driving together as well and as hard as they can._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy has to shut his eyes; it's so much, _too_ much, to see Lovett riding him this intensely. He feels like he can still see it on the inside of his eyelids, Lovett's clenched jaw and tight shoulders, his thighs working. They won't need to go to the gym tomorrow, that's for sure._ _ _ _ _ _

______They wouldn't be able to, probably, sore and tired and satisfied, and the thought makes Tommy thrust harder, just thinking about Lovett worn out from this, Tommy sprawled out next to him, both them dazed and happy._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett's breath is coming in shorter bursts now; Tommy can recognise it as Lovett getting closer, winding up. He wants to learn all Lovett's other tells, the different ways he comes. He wants—he wants—_ _ _ _ _ _

______He forces himself to open his eyes, watch Lovett working himself on Tommy's cock. "Touch—touch yourself," Tommy manages._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett groans, tosses his head back and leans more heavily on one hand so he can free the other. He looks like porn Tommy wants to download and keep forever—like a perfect visual of sex, riding Tommy’s cock and fisting his own. He’s fucking gorgeous. "Love you," Tommy groans. "Love fucking you—" and Lovett cries out, come splashing his chest and Tommy’s belly._ _ _ _ _ _

______He jerks himself through it, clumsy, and doubles forward, catching himself before he collapses onto Tommy's chest. The change in angle, and the way Lovett is panting, thighs trembling, come still warm between them—he came when Tommy said he loved him, and Tommy's gonna—he's gonna—_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I have to—" he grits out, and Lovett moans encouragement, rocks gently back._ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy isn’t going to drive up into Lovett after he’s come, but he doesn’t need to, anyway, so close that just Lovett rolling his hips makes Tommy grab at the comforter. "Lovett," he gasps, and then he’s silent, hips coming up and stilling, coming as deep inside Lovett as he can get._ _ _ _ _ _

______He slumps back, after what feels like ages, and Lovett rises off him with a soft grunt of pain. "Fuck—are you okay?" Tommy asks, reaching for Lovett’s hips. "Did I hurt you?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I very much hurt myself," Lovett says drily. He leans down to kiss Tommy, his fingers tracing Tommy’s face. "You made me feel amazing, is what you did."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Earlier, when they'd been able to hear all of each other, Lovett had considered and rejected clean up, as it was—and one round had bled into another, and Tommy had been able to hear him feel uncomfortable, self conscious, and decide he wanted to keep going, that that desire outweighed the rest, and so Tommy had been comfortable rolling him back over, keeping him in the bed. Lovett had been able to hear Tommy too, Tommy thinking, sincere, that Lovett could get up any time he wanted. They can read each other well now, but Tommy wants to be sure; he doesn't grab for Lovett when Lovett gets off the bed with a wince, heads for the bathroom. He does, however, curl into him when Lovett gets back, bundles them into a heap while Lovett laughs, surprised, and says, happily, "Clingy."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I like touching you," Tommy tells him, because it’s true and he thinks it will make Lovett happy. "You ready to get back to work?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Fuck, yes," Lovett says. "Other than the, uh, sexual and romantic components, this week has been the fucking worst. Every entry on my next rant wheel is just going to be ‘telepathy.’"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy grins at him. "You know, now you’re going to have to tell me all your dirty fantasies out loud if you want me to do them with you."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I’ll survive," Lovett says. "Anyway, that’s what Whatsapp is for, so you can be embarrassed in the privacy of your own home."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I like the privacy of your own home," Tommy tells him, feeling silly, and kisses his neck._ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett curls into it for a second, content, and then sits up, quick. Tommy doesn't have time to feel startled before Lovett says, "I can get Pundit! She can come home!"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy is instantly there with him, delighted._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I miss Pundit so much," Tommy says. "I couldn’t even see Leo while you were sulking at Jon’s house."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett snorts, but doesn’t parry; he’s too pleased, too excited to get Pundit back._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Go call Spencer," Tommy suggests. "He’ll still be up. You can go get her right now."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett rolls for his phone right then. "Yeah," he says, and he's typing, not calling, which figures. "He's up!" He looks over at Tommy. "You should, uh, come with. Pundit loves you."_ _ _ _ _ _

______It's not the most subtle thing Tommy's ever heard and Lovett's expression says he knows it. Tommy fights to keep the instant and intense fondness off his face._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Pundit’s the best," he says. "I could see myself spending a lot more time with Pundit."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Lovett’s biting back a grin, and then he says, "Stop being cute, we have a mission here." He tugs Tommy in for a kiss. "Actually, you can’t help it. Be cute on the move."_ _ _ _ _ _

______They get dressed fast—"Spencer's seen worse than this," Lovett says, shrugging off their general state of obvious post-fuck dishevelment, and Tommy tries not to be weirdly jealous about that—and drive over. They can hear Pundit barking before they even cut the engine._ _ _ _ _ _

______"That’s ... Spencer barking," Lovett says, grinning._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Pundit’s a silent angel," Tommy agrees, laughing, and then the door’s opening and Pundit’s running into Lovett’s arms._ _ _ _ _ _

______He sweeps her up instantly, letting her lick all over his face. Her tail's wagging; she's squirming so much Lovett can hardly keep her from falling. His voice gets thick. "Pundit!" he's saying, burying his face in her fur. "Hello baby, hi."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Tommy says hi to Spencer—he has a feeling he’s going to want to make sure Lovett’s friends like him. Spencer’s already looking at him too knowingly. Tommy’s pretty sure by this time next week, Spencer’s going to know more about Tommy than his doctor does._ _ _ _ _ _

______These are the perils of dating Lovett. Tommy’s happy to risk them. "C’mere, Pundit," he coos, taking her out of Lovett’s arms and pressing his face into her belly. "Who’s a good baby puppy?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Game night back on?" Spencer asks Lovett, as Tommy hands Pundit back._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yep," Lovett says, still smug even though he still sounds throaty. Pundit squirms happily, pointing her face up the side of his neck. Lovett never really looks more relaxed than with his dog in his arms. "Ready your moves."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Pundit leans over to nudge Tommy with her fluffy nose. He pets her again, smiling, and when he looks up, Spencer is smirking at Lovett._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Don’t embarrass me in front of my hot new boyfriend, Spencer," Lovett says. He almost completely hides the nerves as he says it, but Tommy knows him too well to miss it._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I’ll defend his honour if I have to," Tommy says, grinning. "But I’m more of a lover than a fighter."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I can see that," Spencer says, staring pointedly at the marks on Lovett’s neck. "Okay, lovebirds. Get off my porch and take the mutt with you." He leans in to kiss Pundit’s head. "See you soon, you monster."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Spencer is back in his house before they've got back in the car, and Pundit yelps happily as they close the car doors._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Hey noisy lady," Tommy says, ruffling her ears. "Good to have you back."_ _ _ _ _ _

______When he looks up, Lovett is watching him. He's smiling, arms around Pundit. He looks good even in objectively shitty street lighting._ _ _ _ _ _

______"What?" Tommy says._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Nothing important," Lovett says, sounding happy. "Let's go home."_ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Contains characters seeing things in each other’s minds without express permission, including very low points and panic attacks.


End file.
